A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F Part 16

The Hawk was settling fast now and it seemed the carrier would get away from her. O'Malley cut the incidence. The Hawk lifted a bit, lunged forward and slid over the edge. Then it squashed down, hit and plunged.

Stan could see the flying bridge and many staring, white faces.

O'Malley was showing a rare amount of knowledge of carrier landings. He stalled the Hawk as the deck opened under her, then clamped her down furiously. There was a thud, dull but solid. The Hawk wrenched around, screamed complainingly, then set herself at landing position.

Stan tossed his arm over his face and set himself for the crash that would tear him apart. The blow did not come. He slid his arm down, and all around the ship a ring of red-faced sailors peered at him, some of them grinning broadly. Then a cheer broke out.

O'Malley was first out of the ship. He plumped down on the deck and faced an officer who came charging from somewhere. He saluted solemnly.

Standing there, with his flying suit hanging on his bony frame, his hawk face peering at the officer, he looked more like a scarecrow than one of His Majesty's crack pilots.

"Where did this come from and what is it?" the officer demanded.

"'Tis a dive bomber, the very colleen that smacked that pocket battleship not so far back. An' 'tis a valuable specimen as must be delivered to His Majesty's air forces," O'Malley said gravely.

"Go up on the bridge and report at once," the officer said and his voice was not so harsh. He had seen the Hawk make a direct hit on the deck of the n.a.z.i battleship.

They clumped up to the bridge, Stan edging in ahead of O'Malley. There ought to be a bit of diplomacy used and he was afraid O'Malley might not use the proper approach to the skipper. The flag officer, who had piloted them to the bridge, saluted smartly and retired. Stan faced a grizzled man of about sixty. Steel-blue eyes regarded him frostily. Then the commander smiled.

"My compliments, gentlemen," he said. "A mighty fine effort though a bit risky."

"Thank you, sir," Stan answered. "This plane is a test job and we felt she was so valuable she ought to be salvaged."

"I see, so you set that superdemon down on my deck." He gave Stan a searching look. "Your navy training is good. How does it come that you are not with the sea forces?"

"My friend, Lieutenant O'Malley, made the landing, sir," Stan said.

O'Malley grinned broadly at the commander. "Sure, an' it was pure luck, the luck o' the Irish," he said.

"You will be cared for and your specimen plane will be landed," the commander promised. "In fact, I watched you dive bomb that battleship and I believe the navy could use some of this type of ship. I will make a memorandum to that effect."

As they walked down from the bridge, Stan looked at O'Malley. "I never asked you where you learned to fly," he said. "Could it have been the Royal Navy?"

"It could have been," O'Malley answered and closed his big mouth tight.

Stan didn't ask any more questions. They went below and had a good meal. Later they received word from the commander that the carrier was headed across to the Norwegian coast, but they would be sent home by motor launch. The Hendee Hawk would have to wait until the naval patrol swung around their course and slipped into Portsmouth, or some other port.

"How long will the swing take?" Stan asked.

The young officer who had delivered the message shook his head. "One never knows."

They had to be satisfied with that. No one could tell what the squadron would run into, or when their course would be changed. Nor, of course, whether the carrier would ever see port again. In the meantime all they could do was trust to luck that the Hawk would be delivered ash.o.r.e somehow. They were fortunate that they were being sent back by a motor launch and wouldn't have to accompany the squadron across to the Norwegian coast.

CHAPTER VIII

STAN'S PAST RISES

O'Malley and Stan climbed out of a Bentley roadster and hurried across the street to the squadron gateway. The sentry let them pa.s.s after one look at their soiled uniforms and a brief word.

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

"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 rousing welcome O'Malley had forecast was lacking. A number of the boys looked at them, then turned away. There was something in the air, a definite tightness caused by their entering that Stan didn't like at all. The Irishman barged cheerfully across the room and ordered a pie.

Stan sank into a chair. Without appearing to be interested, except in the paper he had picked up, he watched the men in the room. They were looking 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 to find out. He'd collar one of the boys and put it up to him, demanding a straight answer. He was moving across the room, when an orderly spoke to him. Stan swung around. The orderly was nervous and kept his eyes roving everywhere 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. Possibly had seen him. Stan stepped over to O'Malley. The Irishman, his mouth full of pie, turned around. He glanced at Stan, then shoved aside the remainder of his pie.

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

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

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

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

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

"Come in, Wilson," Farrell said curtly.

"How are you, Stan?" Milton said. He was clearly upset over what he had been 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 Garret has 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 with selling plans of the Hendee Hawk to n.a.z.i agents." Stan knew he was supposed to answer.

"I was tried and acquitted."