A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F.

by Rutherford G. Montgomery

  CHAPTER VIII

  STAN'S PAST RISES

  O'Malley and Stan climbed out of a Bentley roadster and hurried acrossthe street to the squadron gateway. The sentry let them pass after onelook at their soiled uniforms and a brief word.

  "We'll be collectin' a bushel of medals in about a minute," O'Malleysaid.

  "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 rousingwelcome O'Malley had forecast was lacking. A number of the boys lookedat them, then turned away. There was something in the air, a definitetightness caused by their entering that Stan didn't like at all. TheIrishman barged cheerfully across the room and ordered a pie.

  Stan sank into a chair. Without appearing to be interested, except inthe paper he had picked up, he watched the men in the room. They werelooking 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 tofind out. He'd collar one of the boys and put it up to him, demanding astraight answer. He was moving across the room, when an orderly spoke tohim. Stan swung around. The orderly was nervous and kept his eyes rovingeverywhere 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. Possiblyhad seen him. Stan stepped over to O'Malley. The Irishman, his mouthfull of pie, turned around. He glanced at Stan, then shoved aside theremainder of his pie.

  "Sure, an' you been seein' a ghost." Then his big mouth clamped shuttight. After a moment's thought, he added, "If they try givin' you aride 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 goget the spalpeen that's makin' the stink!"

  Stan grinned in spite of himself. At that moment O'Malley would havelaid a bony fist on the jaw of an Air Marshal. He had never seen theIrishman so wrought-up; he was twice as mad as he ever got when he wentinto action.

  "This is something only Stan Wilson can handle." Then he added moresoftly, "It hasn't anything to do with the little show we put on. Andyou can't help me. Thanks, just the same."

  O'Malley stood glaring after him as he went out, then he faced the manin the mess and his eyes were snapping dangerously.

  Stan went straight to headquarters and an orderly let him into the WingCommander's office without delay. The instant he stepped into the roomStan knew his whole world had blown up under him. Beside the O.C.'sdesk sat Charles L. Milton and across from him was Garret, smilingtriumphantly and smugly. He leaned forward as Stan hesitated at thedoor.

  "Come in, Wilson," Farrell said curtly.

  "How are you, Stan?" Milton said. He was clearly upset over what he hadbeen 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 Garrethas 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 withselling plans of the Hendee Hawk to Nazi agents." Stan knew he wassupposed to answer.

  "I was tried and acquitted."

  "That is true, but no American firm would hire you and the Army refusedto allow you to enlist. Is that correct?"

  "Yes, sir."

  The Wing Commander cleared his throat. "Have you anything to say foryourself that would clear up this angle?"

  "I was the victim of Nazi agents who stole the plans. That was proved atthe trial. Later, they cleverly planted rumors and suspicions about meso 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 couldinto his words. He didn't expect the O.C. to believe him any more thanthe American firms or the army officers to whom he had applied for entryinto the service.

  "You have done a splendid job here, for which the British people and HisMajesty's Government thank you; but, in these times of great danger, wecannot take chances with anyone whose past record is in doubt. I amsorry, Wilson, but I have orders to release you and send you back to theUnited States."

  Stan sat looking at the Wing Commander. Suddenly anger boiled up insidehim, 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 chargesagainst me were phony."

  The O.C. reddened. He looked at Garret. Scowling blackly, he said, "Itook that attitude, personally, but my superior officers have orderedyour release."

  "Before you release him I suggest that you consider another angle,"Garret said. "I have just learned that, though he and an Irish recruitreturned safely, the new plane did not return. The fighters of allgroups have been questioned and they did not see the Hawk in actionagainst the enemy at all. I think the plane was delivered to Nazi agentson the coast." Garret's voice was little better than a snarl when hefinished.

  Stan's gaze locked with that of the lieutenant. "The Hendee Hawk will bedelivered here at the field in a few days. Lieutenant O'Malley set herdown 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 onlya 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, supportedby the strong arm of O'Malley.

  "Sure, an' did I hear someone say I didn't set that Hawk down on acarrier?" O'Malley growled. His glare traveled from Farrell to Garrettand fastened there. Garret shrank back in his chair.

  The pair moved into the room. Allison's face was white and thin but hiseyes 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 forwarda chair for Allison.

  "We felt it of great importance, sir," Allison said as he sank into thechair. "I am sure you will agree when I explain." He took a thickenvelope from his pocket and laid it on the desk before the O.C. "Thesepapers will be of interest to you, sir, I am sure."

  The Wing Commander opened the envelope and spread a sheaf of papers onhis desk. He bent over them, reading deliberately.

  After laying aside the last report he looked up. His eyes were onGarret.

  "It seems, Lieutenant, that you have made a jackass out of yourself andout of me. These reports are from the American Federal Bureau ofInvestigation, and from the British Intelligence. Both departments giveLieutenant 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 anytime you wished. After the treatment you have received here I feel it myduty to offer you a release so that you may do so."

  The sudden turn of affairs had Stan groggy; however, the realizationthat he was at last freed of the smear that had blackened his namestarted 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 tookit out of the file to have a bit of sport with you. It was dumb of me toforget to replace it. But you were so stubborn over the whole matter Ididn't feel you needed to know."

  Garret got to his feet. His face was white and his voice was not verysteady. "I merely did my duty a
s I saw it, sir. I had no way of knowingwhat was in the report Allison has laid before you. I ask leave toretire."

  "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'Malleywas 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 isthe best test pilot that ever stepped into a plane."

  "Allison's comin' back in a couple days an' Red Flight goes out inSpitfires," O'Malley broke in eagerly. "Sure, an' there's no war on overin America. 'Tis right here you'll be staying or I'll give you a finedusting 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. Heglanced at it, then picked it up. A minute later he pounded the deskwith his fist and began to laugh.

  "This report says His Majesty's carrier, _Staunch_, has on board a newtype of dive bomber which put a pocket battleship out of action andlater landed upon the deck of the carrier. The commander considers theplane so valuable he is putting in to deliver it."

  "Until we can get three of those Hawks for you boys, you will flySpitfires as Red Flight," the O.C. said. "After that you will likely winthe war without any help."

  "Sure, an' we'll do just that, sor, as a special favor to you," O'Malleyanswered.

  The O.C. looked at him and frowned. He wasn't sure whether O'Malley wasspoofing or meant it. Allison and Stan were sure O'Malley was in deadearnest.

  "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 onthat," O'Malley said.

  Stan had the same feeling. There was something about Garret he could notunderstand. He had a feeling there was more than just a grudge againsthim in Garret's acts. The lieutenant had certain connections that seemedto reach very high up into official circles. Stan planned to do somequiet 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 hisaction in deserting Red Flight was not clear. And no one seemed to knowhow he had managed to get himself placed in a responsible position closeto the O.C.

  One thing looked good to Stan. Garret had left the squadron and no oneknew where he had been sent. He was out of the way, yet Stan had afeeling he had not seen the last of him.

  The day Allison returned to duty an order was posted creating a nightdefense group of fighters. It consisted of twelve Spitfires and RedFlight was included. O'Malley was so excited over the order that hewalked 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 ballooncables 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, mostreckless, Spitfire pilots for night service. London had been smashed andbattered and set on fire night after night. The ground guns and theballoons got a few of the bandits, but too many slipped through and senttheir cargoes of death down upon the city. It was up to the boys withthe eight-gun death in their wind edges to stop the invaders.

  The first action came at eleven o'clock that evening. The call for thenew formation blasted into the mess while the men were gathered aroundspeculating on who would draw the job of being Squadron Leader. Theyrushed out into the night after hurrying into their togs. On the cabrank an even dozen Spitfires breathed flame from idling motors,trembling like things alive, straining to be up and into the blacknessafter 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 wheelbrakes and slipped around and down upon the line. They would go up inthrees. Red Flight was third out and O'Malley fumed into his flap mikeover the delay.

  The Recording Officer, looking massive in his greatcoat, backed away. Amobile floodlight slid over the field and took position, its long, widebeam slapping down the runway.

  "Steady, Moon Flight, check your temperatures," ordered the SquadronLeader.

  Stan stiffened as the voice came in over his headset. He knew thatvoice. It was the voice of Arch Garret!

  Affirmative replies clicked in. Stan managed to answer, but his mind wasin a hard knot. This was all cockeyed. Garret leading a flight thatcalled for the toughest of flying. Stan groaned. This would be a luckynight for the Jerries, and a tough break for the folks crouching in thedarkened streets. He heard the banshee wail of the alarm sirens as heslid his hatch cover into place.

  "East. Contact bandits at 8,000 feet. Moon Flight east," Garret's voicegritted into Stan's ears.

  The Spitfires roared up and away to the east. Every pilot was strainingto catch a glimpse of the incoming raiders. They spread out and boredinto the darkness, swooping and diving, but they made no contacts.Behind them the searchlights stabbed and crisscrossed and wavered. Thenthe ground guns began to blast, and tracer bullets arched upward likerockets in a celebration. The muck over lower London was thick and thesearchlights began to pick out black shapes. Then came the bombs. Theysmashed into roofs and went splintering on to blow houses to bits. Theyrent and ripped mortar and stone and brick. People were buried under thedebris.

  Stan banked steeply and shouted into his flap mike. "They've slipped inbehind us. Come on, Red Flight!"

  "Sure, an' I'm way ahead of ye," came the voice of O'Malley.

  Moon Flight wheeled and went thundering back. They could not stop theraging fires below or do anything about the shattered buildings, butthey could make sure that few of the raiders ever made a return trip.

  In the dull glow from the fires below Stan saw O'Malley's ship divedown, like a streak of dark shadow, straight upon a Junkers that wasflying along in a manner that suggested it thought it was overunprotected territory. O'Malley's guns drilled fire and the Junkers'right wing flipped upward and faded into the night. Then the killernosed over and went down like a flaming torch.

  Stan was into the battle before the wrecked Junkers had dropped 500feet. He laid over and raked a big death ship with his Brownings. Itfolded and slid off, spewing its crew into the night.

  Having made contact Moon Flight really went to work. Their first savageattack had broken up the spear-shaped Stuka formation. Now they gavetheir attention to individual combat. There was no need for commandsfrom anyone. They swung about on invisible hairpins and screamed afterthe big fellows.

  It didn't take so very long. Stuka after Stuka went down. From the blackpit above the Jerry fighters were diving down to see what had happenedto their charges. The Messerschmitts twisted and ducked and dived,clearing their guns for action.

  Down at the 4,000-foot level the Spitfires were knocking down the lastof the raiders. This done, they nosed upward to meet the Messerschmittsas eagerly as they had attacked the killers. They were overeager tocontact the fighters and one of them caught a crossfire as he roared in.His ship went slithering off to the west, spinning madly. The Spitsdarted through the flame filled sky. They flipped over and spun anddived, always seeking targets to make their guns flame.

  Stan sent his Spitfire into a sc
reaming reversement, tipped out of itwith his guns hammering as he laid his sights on a leering swastika. Itwas over quickly. The Messerschmitts had no stomach for such a deadlygame. After a gesture at rescuing their bombers, they fled into thenight.

  "Moon Flight, come in. Moon Flight, come in."

  Then O'Malley's brogue burred. "Begorra, 'tis a very fine avening."

  Stan grinned. He was glad to hear the voice of the wild Irishman. Aftera battle in the sky the voice of a pal always sounds good. He bentforward.

  "The same to you, Irisher."

  "And to you, Yank," came Allison's voice.

  They slid in like mottled ghosts and Stan counted them. Nine Spitfires.There would be three new faces in Moon Flight tomorrow. Three new menfor the raider shift. He toyed with the idea of slipping by and checkingGarret's guns, but gave it up. Garret would be wise enough to fire aburst or two. And, of course, he might have misjudged the lieutenant.

  In the briefing room there was little talk. The boys were grim and sour.London had been bombed. They got little comfort out of the impressivescore they had chalked up--ten Stukas and six Messerschmitts. They knewthat if they had headed west they would have stopped the raid.

  No one challenged Garret when he claimed one Stuka and a Messerschmitt.Nobody spoke to him. They went on into the mess and flopped down to waitfor the metallic voice of the intersquadron speaker.

  O'Malley lay on a bench with his feet up against the wall. Allison layback, his eyes closed, his thin face colorless. Stan sat staring at thefloor. He was trying to get a lot of things straight in his mind. Hecouldn't honestly say Garret had led them east purposely. The maincontrol room must have sent them in the wrong direction, but it allbothered him, anyway. And he knew the other boys had the same feeling.