CHAPTER III
BILL O'MALLEY
Allison leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. Stan waited for theFlight Lieutenant to explain his sudden mirth. Allison had just comefrom the O.C.'s office. He turned to Stan.
"I put in a call for a new flier. After all, I can't have a couple ofprize fighters trailing me around. I got a very sweet fighting man. Hedoesn't love the English so much, and he doesn't hate the Jerries somuch. He's an Irish boy whose ancestors haven't missed a war in athousand years. He just couldn't stay out of this one." Allison chuckledand nodded his head.
Stan turned his gaze toward the door, which had swung inward revealing atall youth.
"There," said Allison, "comes Bill O'Malley."
Bill O'Malley was long and lank, with an Adam's apple that bobbed up anddown his throat. His bony shoulders were stooped in a most unmilitarymanner, and his head boasted a thatch of flaming red hair. He was aboutthe last person in the world Stan would have picked as a daredevilflier. His homely face and his sloppy figure would not have inspiredfear or confidence in anyone. Allison waved to him.
"Hi, old fellow, come over and meet a pal."
Bill O'Malley grinned as he slouched across the room. As soon as his bigmouth cracked into a smile Stan knew he was going to like this bigIrisher.
Allison arose. He was acting with deliberate and mock politeness."O'Malley, meet Wilson," he said with a sweep of his arm. Then thederisive mask slipped over his face and he seated himself again.
"Sure, 'tis a quiet an' homelike place ye have here, Commander,"O'Malley said. "Wilson, me boy, I'm right glad to meet up with ye."
"Nothing ever happens around here," Allison agreed. "It's a peacefulplace."
"Snug as a clambake," O'Malley agreed. "But much more dead. Now when Igave me word I'd come in with you boys the O.C. made quite a talk abouthow tough the job was. Here we sit like auld friends at a picnic." Hescowled bleakly at Allison.
"I'll send over for a flight of Jerries," Allison said with a grin.
"'Twill be a pleasure, me foine fellow," O'Malley answered. "I came overhere to see some action."
Both Stan and Allison knew Bill O'Malley meant just what he said. He waswild as any crazy hare, but he had a name that was already on thetongues of ground men when spectacular stunts were talked about. Stanguessed that Allison had not had much trouble in getting the Irisheraway from whatever flight he was with. Few Flight Lieutenants would havecared to be responsible for him.
The loud-speaker began to blare. "Red Flight, all out! Green Flight, allout! Yellow Flight, all out!"
"Sounds like the whole Jerry outfit is on the way," O'Malley said as heunwound himself from a stool and made for the door.
There was no mistaking the fact that O'Malley was a first-class fightingman. Stan knew it by the way he got into his Spitfire and rammed thehatch cover home. By the time they had zoomed up and away, he was sureof it. Allison was chuckling over the radio.
"Cuddle in, Red Flight. We pick up Bristols and Blenheims at 10,000."
"'Tis no wet nurse I'll be," came the Irish brogue of O'Malley. "Iresign this minnit."
"Headquarters says the Jerries have two dozen Messer One-Nines on areception committee," Allison droned back.
"The spalpeens! Why such a measly little bunch?" O'Malley demandedindignantly.
Stan gave his attention to flying. The squadron droned into a thick bankof clouds and was swallowed. Nine demons bored ahead to take a bombingflight through.
"Rose Raid, take position. Rose Raid, take position," came a voice overthe air from the tactics group gathered around a big map atheadquarters.
Stan grinned. The British were odd in many ways. For no good reason,they called this raid Rose Raid instead of B-7 or some otherbusinesslike tabulation. Then he sighted the bombers 1,000 feet below.Three heavily loaded Bristols and three Blenheims. Stan remembered thefast-flying Consolidateds and the B-19's of the United States Army.Soon, if he was lucky enough to stay alive, he might be escortingB-19's.
Up and up they went into the clouds, with the bombers droning steadilysoutheast and the Spitfires cruising above and below and around.
The radios were all strangely silent now. There was no talk and Stan lethis ears fill with the pleasant roar of his Merlin. He bent forward andstared at his instrument panel. That gauge couldn't be right, it must bejammed or something. If the needle was reading right he had less than ahalf tank of gas. He bent forward and rapped the panel. The needle didnot change, except to surge a bit further toward the empty side. Stan'smouth drew into a grim line. He could believe that gauge and turntail--or he could figure it was wrong and go on.
If it was right, he was short of gas for the trip. A hard gleam shone inhis eyes. Regardless of the gauge, his tank should have been filledfull. If it hadn't been filled there was dirty work somewhere. Hethought of Garret. Allison had said Garret had been put on the ground.Stan wondered what job Garret had been given.
Then he snorted. He was letting himself go. Just because he was sore atGarret he was imagining things. He rapped the dial sharply and theneedle jumped, then settled back. If he went on he would run out of gasover German territory and have to go down. In spite of himself, hecouldn't help muttering:
"That would be a nice way of getting rid of me."
He shrugged his shoulders. Allison was dipping his wings in a signal.They were going down to have a look below. He couldn't use his flapmike. If he cut and ran he would have to prove he hadn't drained histank to get out of a hot odds-on battle; he'd have to have proof thatthe tank wasn't filled when he took off. But he had to decide at once.
A guarded voice spoke. It was Allison's. "Peel off and dive by position.Come up after a check below clouds."
The Flight Lieutenant's Spitfire lanced over on its side and streakeddown like a rocket. O'Malley followed. Stan's lips pulled into a hardline. He flipped the Spitfire over on its side and went roaring down thechute. The air speed and altimeter were going insane. The shriek of thedive shook every nerve in Stan's body, and set him back against thecrash pad, holding him there with a powerful grip. The three Spitfiresroared out of the clouds at the same instant. They streaked into theclear blue for a moment, then shot upward and ducked back into the cloudagain.
They had seen nothing except a low and rocky coastline with white linesof breakers beating against it. Not a plane in the world, except thesquadron, so it seemed.
And then the clouds broke away and a harbor was in the frame of theirwindscreens. It looked like a toy harbor with its oblong breakwater. Agreat hangar with a black painted roof looked out upon the gentlyrolling waters. There were seaplanes in the picture somewhere. Stancraned his neck and saw what was holding the eyes of the men in theBlenheims and the Bristols. Three toy boats rode at anchor beside adock. Those were supply ships that had slipped through the blockade.Headquarters was taking a last desperate chance of keeping that valuablecargo from getting through.
Then the Rose Raid actually started. The radio began to crackle. "RoseRaid at targets! Rose Raid over targets!" That was the squadron leadertelling headquarters they were going down.
The nine light Spitfires went down in a screaming dive to cover theBlenheims and the Bristols. The big Bristols swung into line-asternformation and bashed through the first upheaval of Flak-88 shells. Blackand white blooms of bursting shells bracketed them as their leader slidinto the curtain of fire. The next instant the big Bristol disappearedin a mass of smoke and flame.
A Blenheim on Stan's right twisted upward, threw away a wing and wentdown in a dizzy spin, ramming its nose into the roof of the blackhangar.
The remaining four bombers plunged down upon their objective with theSpitfires doing dizzy stunts alongside them and the air seemingly filledwith Heinkel single-seaters which had slashed into the picture fromnowhere. A darting Heinkel dived upon Stan. Stan opened up and saw anaileron flutter away from the plummeting fighter. The formation ofSpitfires had broken up now. It was everybody into the dogfight to keepthe Heink
els from getting at the four precious bombers.
The slashing, whirling Spitfires did the job. They tore into theHeinkels and their deadly eight-gun combinations showed at once whatsuperior fire power they had. Stan watched O'Malley send a fighter downand slide over on his back, out of the path of three more, to getanother before his first burst of fire had ceased smoking. O'Malley wasa demon of the sky. He was in and out and up and down and his trail wasa trail of death. Allison was up there, too, doing just about as wellbut doing it with cold precision rather than by sheer recklessness.
Stan knifed into a wedge of Heinkels darting down to drop upon one ofthe Bristols. The Heinkels scattered before his fire, twisting andducking and darting. Stan laid over and looked down. The bombers hadunloaded. Below him the three ships, big now, and dirty in theirstreaked gray and black paint, were very close. Men were running wildlyabout on their decks or leaping into the water. One of them burst intoflame amidship, another seemed to explode, the third listed far over andher stern sank slowly down.
Stan's radio was shouting at him. "Rose Raid! Rose Raid! Ten banditsdown. Two bombers have left formation. Two fighters have left formation.Rose Raid, come in. Rose Raid, come in!"
The Spitfires could not come in. While the bombers slipped away underfull throttle, free of their loads and faster than they had been, theSpitfires slashed and blasted and ducked. Stan watched a Spitfire gointo the bay, twisting and spinning. He wondered if it could be Allisonor O'Malley.
"Red Flight, come in." That was Allison's voice.
"Comin' soon as I get me another spalpeen," O'Malley's brogue burred.
Stan glanced at his gas gauge. It showed empty, but the Merlin was stillhammering away. He nosed her up as he cuddled his flap mike.
"Wilson coming in."
Up and up the Spitfire roared, shaking the Heinkels off her tail as shetwisted and banked, her 1,000 horses tossing her toward the ceiling.Stan held his breath as he headed her home. Was that gas gauge a liar?
He heard the Merlin cough and knew the gauge had not lied. Looking backhe saw the dim outline of the enemy shore. Back there he could crippledown and they would not shoot him. They would be glad to get a soundSpitfire and they would keep him locked up for the rest of the war.Ahead lay the gray waters of the English channel, rough and sullen, coldas ice.
"Wilson out of gas. Making a try for home," he shouted into his flapmike.
Above him he saw that Messerschmitt One-Tens had joined the Heinkels intrying to finish off the Spitfires. He leveled off as the Merlin gaveits last gasp of power and sent the ship gliding toward home.
For a time Stan thought the Jerries had missed him, they were so busy upabove. Eight thousand feet below his wings the rough waters of thechannel were moving up to meet him. The first warning Stan had that hewas not to escape without a fight was a terrific jolting and rippingthat almost shook him loose from his seat; the next was the staccatorattle of a rapid-fire cannon that was ripping great chunks out of hisright wing.
The Spitfire writhed up on her side, then rolled over on her back andshot seaward. Stan pulled the stick back against his stomach and kickedthe right rudder viciously. He looked up just as the Jerry loosedanother broadside which missed the ship. The Jerry zoomed back up,satisfied he had finished the Spitfire that was trying to slip away.
Stan gave the Jerry but a glance. He was battling to pull the Spitfireout of the spin he had jammed her into. He soon realized that there wasno control left in the ship, so he unbuckled his belt and rammed backwhat was left of the hatch cover. He squirmed out of the cockpit anddived. As he slid away from the ship he felt himself caught and held.His chute bellied out and the shoulder straps wrenched at him. A secondlater he was ripped loose and whirled away from the crumpled wreck. Ashe leveled off he saw that he was about 3,000 feet from the water.
It appeared also that Stan had the channel to himself. Overhead he couldhear the faint drone of motors; otherwise there was no sound except thecries of a half-dozen excited gulls that swooped down about himcuriously as the chute let him drift downward toward the gray sea.
An inshore wind whipped at his clothing, twisting him dizzily as hedangled there in mid-air, and he had a brief, crazy hope that it mightcarry him in to land before he went down. But that wild hope died atonce when he realized the shore was miles away.
There was nothing for it but to take his wetting and hope the R.A.F.life jacket was as good as it was supposed to be. He stared downward atthe choppy surface that seemed to sweep upward to meet him, gritting histeeth to drive fear away. This was a chance every channel flier took ...and sometimes they were rescued.
He handled the chute controls skillfully, easing himself down with thewind while he fought to loosen the buckles that held the straps tightlyabout him. If he went into the water with that chute dragging him downthere wouldn't be any chance of eventual rescue.
As his numbed fingers tore at the buckles he wondered what it felt liketo drown. The sea was close now. A bleak gray expanse of waves thatreached hungry arms upward to receive another human sacrifice. Onebuckle came free, then another. He ripped himself out of the harness andplummeted down the last ten feet, his body driving deep into the icycold water.
He came to the surface sputtering and beating the water madly, thenremembered the life jacket he wore, and let its buoyancy support himwhile he took stock of the situation.
It looked hopeless. He was a single tiny speck floating on a vastexpanse of sea where every surface craft was subject to attack and moreintent on making port than searching for downed fliers. The sky overheadwas clear of planes now. He wondered if anyone had seen him bailing out.He had reported he was short of gas. If either Allison or O'Malley madeit back safely, he had a hunch they wouldn't rest until they returned tosearch the sea for him or the wreckage of his plane.
That was his only hope. Any other rescue would be purely accidental. Theicy fingers of the water were eating into his flesh. The heavy flyingtogs were becoming water-soaked, dragging him down. He didn't know howlong he could hold out. He tried to swim toward the dimly distant shoreline, but the waves battered him back and the numbing cold stole awayhis strength.
He forced himself to relax, let the life jacket support him. It might behours before rescue came. It looked hopeless, but a man never gave uphope while life remained in his body. If he could keep his head abovewater, keep from swallowing too much of the salt sea, he could last afew hours at least.
And he clung to the belief that Allison or O'Malley would return to lookfor him. Though he didn't know just what either of them could do if theydid spot him from the sky. If one of them could get hold of a seaplanehe didn't doubt that they'd try to set it down on the rough surface torescue him. He tried to recall whether he'd seen any seaplanes sincearriving in England.
Things were getting hazy in his mind. He gave up trying to move hislimbs. The blood was congealing in his veins. He had a strange feelingthat his flesh was becoming brittle with cold, that he would break intopieces if he tried to move an arm or leg.
A delightful sensation of helpless lethargy crept over him. This was thesort of thing he had read happened to people when death was very closeand inevitable. It was Nature's kind way of drugging the perceptionsagainst the impact of death.
He began to hear a buzzing in his ears, and he decided that was thebeginning of the end. It didn't matter now. Nothing mattered. Not eventhe war.
The buzzing grew louder and became a distinct annoyance. He tried toshut it away from his consciousness, but it persisted. He felt himselfbeing dragged back from the coma into which he had sunk. The buzzingbecame a loud drone, then smashed at his ear drums with a shatteringroar.
He came to life again, and fought to blink his salt-encrusted eyelidsopen. He recognized that roar of a Spitfire motor. It was zooming overhim, flattening out in a crazy reckless pancake dangerously close to thesurface of the water.
He got one eye open and caught a flashing glimpse of a grinning Irishface leaning over the side of the plane an
d shouting something to him.The plane lifted swiftly and swept away and Stan found himself waving anumbed hand after it.
The ice in his veins was transformed into tongues of flame that lickedthrough his body. O'Malley had come, just as he had known the Irishmanwould. He would bring a rescue ship back. All Stan had to do was stayalive a little longer.
He grinned happily as he watched the Spitfire become a dim speck in thesky and then disappear. He began beating the water with his arms andlegs, and he jeered good-naturedly at the sea that had sought to engulfhim.
The plane was coming back, circling high overhead to spot the floatingpilot for a fishing boat that was putting out from shore. As the smallcraft drew near Stan saw two men in oilskins waving to him. He wavedback, and then a strange thing happened. It was as though someone hadstruck him on the head with a sledge hammer. He was unconscious when theboat reached him, and he stayed unconscious for a full twenty-fourhours.
He woke up in a strange new world that was utterly different fromanything he had known before. A clean, white, antiseptic world withnarrow beds and pretty girls in white uniforms. He was tucked in one ofthose beds, and one of the pretty girls in a white uniform was bendingover him solicitously.
"Where am I?" he demanded.
"This is a hospital. You are very sick," the nurse said soothingly.
"Hospital!" Stan sputtered. "I'm not staying in any hospital. I wasnever in a hospital in my life!" He got to his feet as orderlies and ahead nurse came running.
"Lie down or I will report you," the head nurse said severely. "You aresick."
"How long do you think it takes me to get over a bath?" Stan shot at thenurse.
"You'll be here two weeks," the head nurse informed him.
Stan had visions of Allison sending out for another man to fill the trioon Red Flight. He wrapped the blanket tighter around him.
"Get my clothes," he ordered.
"Get an officer," the head nurse snapped to an orderly.
Stan knew it was time for action. He swept the blanket ends off thefloor and dived down the hall with the nurses running after him. Adoctor came out of a room, looked at Stan, then ducked back quickly.Stan bounded down a wide stairway and out through a pair of open doors.People stared at him as he rushed up the street in his bare feet lookingfor a cab.
On a corner he bumped into two bobbies. They closed in on both sides ofhim.
"Easy, my man," one of them said. "Easy, now. We'll see you safe back toyour bed."
"Fine," Stan answered. "Get me over to Merry Flying Field as quick asyou can."
The bobbies looked at Stan then exchanged glances. He looked perfectlyhealthy and very powerful, though he was a bit pale and had a wild lookin his eye. They nodded their heads.
"I'm from Red Flight over at Merry Field. Get me there and the FlightLieutenant will vouch for me," Stan urged as he looked down the streetand saw an ambulance rocking around a corner.
The bobbies were satisfied that this young giant was crazy and they hadbetter humor him. They shoved him through the curious crowd that hadformed on the corner. Within a few minutes he was seated in a cabbowling across the city.
Allison was lounging at a table drinking tea with O'Malley when twobobbies and a disheveled man wrapped in a wool blanket marched into themess. 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 woulddrown sure before the boat got to you."
The bobbies nodded their heads and grinned broadly. They lifted theirsticks and moved out, well satisfied with their work. Stan called afterthem:
"If you meet an ambulance wandering about tell the driver to go back tothe hospital and give my regards to the head nurse." He sank into achair 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. Thehospital said you'd be laid up for weeks, but O'Malley had a hunch youwouldn't let them keep you."
Stan told what had happened. When he had finished O'Malley beat a bonyfist 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 begrounded, you know," Allison cut in.
"If Garret was on the crew that handled the fueling that's enough forme," Stan said grimly.
"He was put in charge of our hangar by the O.C. But you can bet hecovered his dirty work carefully. We'll just have to trap him." Allisonspoke grimly.
"And in the meantime we better check our ships before we go out eachtime," Stan said. "If I'd done that this time I'd have brought mySpitfire back whole and wouldn't have had to take a bath in thechannel."
"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 someclothes. 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, butif you wade into him I'm thinkin' there won't be anything left for me todo 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 lookinglittle worse for his ducking, Stan strolled into the hangar. Garret wasnot about so he went to the crew that had handled his ship. They werereally glad to see him, he was sure of that. He looked them over and hada feeling none of them had had any part in the plot.
"Who gassed my Spitfire before she went out on the last raid?" His eyesmoved 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 readywithout 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 outtogether. Squad Four was on duty down the line and could keep an eye onthings 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 gota ducking in the channel."
He saw the men begin eying each other when he said that. He turned andwalked away. Garret had fixed himself a slick alibi. Stan was sure hewould have little luck cracking it. As he neared the door Arch Garretentered.
"Hello, Garret," Stan said and grinned.
Garret stared at him for a minute, then his dark face flushed and hiseyes gleamed with smouldering anger. He stepped closer to Stan.
"You think you can railroad me clean out of this man's army, but you'llget 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 atthat pretty face of yours," Stan said.
Garret quickly backed away and hurried into the hangar. Stan walkedacross the square to his mess. Garret was a dangerous fellow, there wasno 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 fellowknew, but there was no doubt he was a dangerous antagonist. And Stan hadan uncomfortable feeling that Garret knew or at least suspected thetruth about a certain phase of Stan Wilson's past that Stan had hoped hecould leave behind him when he came across the sea to fight the Nazi warmachine.
But that, he grimly told himself, was too much to hope for. No man canever wholly escape his past. Fate
has a way of stepping in and smashingthe best-laid plans of humans. And Stan had a premonition that Fate hadselected Arch Garret as its instrument to ruin his careful plans.
A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F. Page 3