A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F Part 13

Suddenly the Stukas broke formation and scattered, each diving for cover and cutting loose their sticks of bombs. Stan banked and selected a bomber as his victim. Through his windscreen he caught a glimpse of Allison and his hand stiffened on the control. A cloud of Jerry fighters had dropped out of the blue upon the Spitfire. Allison had gone wild as he always did. His Spitfire was a whirling, twisting demon, its eight wing guns flaming. But Allison hadn't a chance against that swarm of Jerries.

Stan shot upward to get into the play. He cut loose the bombs from his racks and gave the Hawk all she had. He had a wide s.p.a.ce of blue to cut through and as he bored in he saw Allison's ship lay over in a wabbly, sickening lurch and then nose down.

"Guns out, motor stuttering. Have to go in," Allison's drawl came over the radio.

The Hendee Hawk roared into the whirling ma.s.s of Jerry fighters and its banks of guns roared. The Jerries slid away after they had tasted the terrible gun power of this new ship.

Stan nosed down and plummeted after Allison who had two Messerschmitts on his tail, but when the Hawk overtook them in one terrific spurt they swerved aside, each sending a final spray of lead over Allison's ship.

Stan picked the one on the right and laid over to cut across the Messer with all his Brownings drilling. A wing sheared away from the Messer and shot up and out of sight. The Messerschmitt went rolling down.

Stan dived after Allison. He didn't like the way the Spitfire was wobbling and turning. He had once seen a ship come in that way and when the boys got to it the pilot was dead. All he could do was trail Allison who failed to answer his frantic calls.

The Spitfire kept going until she was almost to the field. As she slid out over the turf she wavered and her nose went down. She dived a few hundred feet, straightened, then slid off on one wing. Again she straightened and leveled out, close to the ground now. Suddenly she put her nose down and plunged to earth, landing with a smash that made her ground loop and pile up close to a hangar door.

Stan set the Hawk down and slid over to the wrecked Spitfire. He and O'Malley leaped out and ran to the ship. The ground men had dragged Allison out. He was slumped between two of them, his face bloodless, his lips tight with pain. The old, mocking flicker was in his eyes as he shoved aside the arms of the men and smiled at Stan.

"I take back everything I've said about Yank planes," he said, then he slid gently into Stan's arms, a limp rag of a man.

Stan gathered him up and carried him toward a field ambulance which was roaring toward them with its siren screaming, while O'Malley trudged along behind muttering savagely to himself.

A white-coated ambulance surgeon leaped out to meet them as the ambulance slithered to a stop. Stan laid his burden down gently and stepped back out of the way, dragging O'Malley with him. The surgeon knelt beside the unconscious man and made a swift examination, then turned and snapped to a couple of internes hovering behind him:

"Get a stretcher down here. This man is badly wounded."

Stan surged forward and clutched his arm. "How badly?" he queried through bloodless lips. "Not...?"

The surgeon smiled and placed a rea.s.suring hand on his shoulder. "No,"

he replied simply. "I promise you he won't die. England needs all her fliers, and we'll pull him through to go into the air again. I can't tell how soon," he ended briskly. "Not until I get him to the hospital and make a complete examination." He turned away and leaped into the ambulance behind the stretcher, and it sped away with its unconscious burden.

"Glory be to G.o.d," breathed O'Malley fervently. "Come along with you now, we'd best make our reports."

In the briefing room the flight officer met them with more eagerness than was usual with such an official. Nodding toward the chutes, neatly piled on the floor, he said:

"You usually take care of those things, don't you know."

Stan nodded grimly. He was thinking about Allison. O'Malley just grunted and planked his bony elbows on the high desk. Thrusting his chin out, he remarked:

"What you limeys need is more fire wagons like I just slid meself out of. I want one for my own use."

"I heard the new ship was a bit of all right," the flight officer said.

"I'll take your report. The Wing Commander wants it rushed right over."

"We'll be after blushin' to give you the actual facts of what happened,"

O'Malley said slowly.

"One Messerschmitt to us and three to Allison," Stan answered.

The officer nodded and began scribbling. "Fill out one for me right away." He shoved a blank across the desk.

"How about the varmint I dissected with me guns?" O'Malley asked.

"Did you hit one of those Stukas?" Stan asked.

"Sure, an' I did that," O'Malley said.

"One Stuka badly damaged," Stan added.

They went into the mess and for once O'Malley did not order a pie. He sat down and stared at the ceiling, his big mouth clamped shut, his Adam's apple sliding up and down. Finally he said:

"Next time I get to take her, I can fly her like she was me own wings."

"You might as well. This job is half yours," Stan said. "Until we find out about Allison this flight will have only two men and one ship."

"Allison's going to be right back with us. The bye wouldn't kick off until he had had a chance to wind up this new colleen we got." O'Malley said it grimly, as though trying to make himself believe.

"Here comes Wing Commander Farrell and I think he's looking for us,"

Stan said.

"Sure, an' 'tis the big man himself and no other. An' comin' to see us instead of us tramping over there. Me bye, the first thing we know, the King will be dropping in to have a spot of tea with us two intrepid fliers." O'Malley's big mouth was spread in a wide grin.

"Don't get up, men," the Wing Commander said as he came up. He seated himself and started in briskly. "I hear the Hawk is better than anyone thought."

"Not better than I thought," Stan said.

"Well, better than the inspectors and test men thought. They said she wasn't reliable."

"She is sensitive and temperamental," Stan agreed.

"She chops up a Messerschmitt and spits out the pieces like me auld granddaddy used to whack up a box for kindlin'," O'Malley broke in.

"Fine." The Wing Commander smiled broadly. "I just dropped by to ask you boys to stay very close to quarters. We have reports of activity at sea and there may be quite a bit of action. I'd like to find out if this ship is really a dive bomber."

O'Malley grinned happily and saluted the Wing Commander. He had not taken the trouble to get to his feet. Farrell returned the salute without so much as the twitch of a facial muscle.

"We'll be ready, sir." Stan stood at attention.

The Wing Commander walked away and Stan scowled down at his pal. "A fine officer you are."

"Naval action, and my turn comin' up," O'Malley gloated.

An orderly called Stan to the telephone. When he returned he was smiling.

"Allison will make it. He won't be laid up very long."

"Hooray!" O'Malley shouted and leaped into the air. He headed straight across the room toward the counter. The corporal saw him coming and slid an apple pie off the shelf.