A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F Part 11

"An' now, sor, I'll be running along," O'Malley said. "I'm feelin' a bit o' the pinch of hunger."

"Have two pies on my chit book," the Wing Commander said and smiled broadly.

"Indaid, that I will," O'Malley answered gravely.

The three coal barge nurses returned to the briefing room and checked their chutes which had been discarded on the field. They found Lieutenant Garret waiting for them. He drew his mouth into a triumphant frown. Beside his desk lay the three chutes, neatly piled there by the field crew.

"See those chutes?" he snapped.

"Sure, an' one of them gadgets is a personal friend o' mine," O'Malley said and grinned broadly.

"I'm putting it down against you. You discarded them on the field without properly caring for them. That is a violation of general orders." Garret scowled at the Irish flier.

O'Malley leaned his elbows on the desk and regarded the officer thoughtfully.

"Very remarkable, indaid," he said softly.

"Red Flight reports two Dorniers and three Messerschmitts down and one captured," Allison said and his eyes locked with those of the briefing officer.

"Red Flight gets credit for two Dorniers. The Royal Navy reported them.

And one Messerschmitt brought in." Garret's eyes gleamed triumphantly.

"Sure, an' are ye certain ye can give us one Messer?" O'Malley asked.

"Perhaps the poor bye got himself lost an' mistook this berg for Berlin."

"There is no independent check on the other fighters," Garret snapped.

Stan said nothing. He could not trust himself to speak. What he wanted to do was to lay a right on Garret's jaw.

"You fellows better walk pretty straight from now on. And keep yourself looking like officers," Garret barked.

Without bothering to fill in a report, O'Malley shoved off to the mess room. Allison filled out his report and Stan made his out. They reported the exact action and the results. They left Garret scowling at their cards.

"Wilson!" Garret called sharply as Stan started to walk away at Allison's side. "I want a word with you, alone."

Stan turned back and stood at the desk. His gaze locked with Garret's.

"Have you ever flown stunts or test jobs in the United States?" He leaned forward and his small eyes searched Stan's face.

Stan returned his stare. "You have my card where you can dig it out.

Suppose you take a look at it?" Stan turned on his heel and walked away.

Garret let him go without asking any more questions, but he was shaking his head and frowning as though trying to remember something or somebody that had slipped his mind.

"He's about got my number," Stan muttered to himself as he went into the mess.

CHAPTER VI

THE SEA DOGS GROWL

Stan stepped out of the barracks and stood for a moment watching the scene on the field before the hangars. A row of Defiants had been rolled out. Men worked around them or scurried to and from the hangars. There was an uneasy feel about the scene. Stan scented action and a feeling of irritation filled him. Red Flight was on barge patrol when it should have been on combat. It was fools like Garret who messed up battle plans.

He was about to turn toward the mess division and had turned into the narrow alley leading to the building, when he halted and stepped back, close to the wall. Garret was coming out of the doorway of the mess and beside him walked a tall man. The man had a lean, weathered face with a scar across the right cheek. He wore a checked suit and a pearl-gray hat with a broad brim. The hat could have come from no place but the western part of the United States.

Stan recognized him at once as Charles L. Milton. He didn't have to guess twice why Garret had him in hand and why he had taken him to the squadron mess. Garret wanted Milton to see Stan. Quickly moving around a corner, Stan headed for a hangar. He was sure they had not seen him.

As he strode swiftly along, Stan faced the ghost of his past. Milton was an American aircraft engineer. He had designed at least two of the newest models and knew everyone in the industry over in the United States. He knew Stan Wilson very well. As he entered the hangar Stan reflected bitterly that he should have known the British Isles would be swarming with American experts and engineers, now that a great effort was being made to help the besieged English nation. He had about as much chance of hiding in a Royal Air Force squadron as Joe Louis would have in not being recognized at Madison Square Garden.

He might be able to dodge Milton for a while. If he could only shake Garret he might do it for quite a while. Not that his conscience wasn't clear. He had been framed. Framed by n.a.z.i saboteurs, Fifth Column operators. That was the reason he was so eager to get in every lick he could against the monster Hitler had built to swallow the world.

He stood inside the shaded doorway to the hangar and watched Milton step into a car. When the car had rolled away he turned back toward headquarters. Within an hour he had to be back where he could hear the blare of the intersquadron speaker, to be on call for duty. He was moving along, scowling at the busy scene upon the field. As he pa.s.sed the door of the O.C.'s office it opened and Wing Commander Farrell stepped out. Stan saluted and the commander returned the salute. He halted abruptly.

"Well, well," he said. "Just the man I'm looking for. Come in, Lieutenant."

Stan's heart dropped with a thud. This likely meant a lot of questions to be answered, questions put into the O.C.'s head by Garret.

"Yes, sir," he answered and followed the Commander inside.

Farrell seated himself behind his desk. He motioned toward a chair. "Sit down, Wilson."

Stan sat down and waited. The Commander fished into his desk and took out a cigar. He clipped the end off with a silver knife, then lighted the weed and looked at Stan.

"Allison tells me you have had a lot of experience with various types of fast planes. Testing over in Canada. Most of the American ships have been going through trials up there. Did you have a chance at any of them?"

Stan breathed more freely. "Yes, sir," he said.

"We have a new type American plane here." The Commander fished through some papers, found a blue sheet and studied it for a minute. "They call this one the Hendee Hawk. We have tested it and found it to be rather fast but very tricky." The Commander frowned at the report, then looked up at Stan.

Stan could hardly hold back a grin and a whoop. Did he know the Hendee Hawk? He knew the Hawk from her prop to her tail a.s.sembly. The Wing Commander was being very conservative when he said the Hawk was rather fast. Stan had squinted at her air-speed indicator when it was jiggling crazily at 600 miles per hour. He waited for the Wing Commander to go on.

"Ordinarily we would train enough special men to handle these ships, but we are pressed for fighting ships at the moment."

Stan's face did not reveal anything of what he was thinking. The Britisher was talking calmly and appeared not to be worried. Stan knew the need for Hendee Hawks was desperate, and he knew the ships would deliver.

"Have you many of them, sir?" he asked.

"No. This ship is a test job." The Wing Commander dropped the blue sheet. "Have you ever flown a Hendee Hawk?"

"Yes, sir."

The question Stan expected to follow did not come. Wing Commander Farrell said nothing for more than a minute.

"Would you like to take this one? Into action?"