A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F Part 18

"Swatting Stukas in the dark?" Allison asked grimly. "Dodging balloon cables 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, most reckless, Spitfire pilots for night service. London had been smashed and battered and set on fire night after night. The ground guns and the balloons got a few of the bandits, but too many slipped through and sent their cargoes of death down upon the city. It was up to the boys with the eight-gun death in their wind edges to stop the invaders.

The first action came at eleven o'clock that evening. The call for the new formation blasted into the mess while the men were gathered around speculating on who would draw the job of being Squadron Leader. They rushed out into the night after hurrying into their togs. On the cab rank an even dozen Spitfires breathed flame from idling motors, trembling like things alive, straining to be up and into the blackness after 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 wheel brakes and slipped around and down upon the line. They would go up in threes. Red Flight was third out and O'Malley fumed into his flap mike over the delay.

The Recording Officer, looking ma.s.sive in his greatcoat, backed away. A mobile floodlight slid over the field and took position, its long, wide beam slapping down the runway.

"Steady, Moon Flight, check your temperatures," ordered the Squadron Leader.

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

Affirmative replies clicked in. Stan managed to answer, but his mind was in a hard knot. This was all c.o.c.keyed. Garret leading a flight that called for the toughest of flying. Stan groaned. This would be a lucky night for the Jerries, and a tough break for the folks crouching in the darkened streets. He heard the banshee wail of the alarm sirens as he slid his hatch cover into place.

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

The Spitfires roared up and away to the east. Every pilot was straining to catch a glimpse of the incoming raiders. They spread out and bored into the darkness, swooping and diving, but they made no contacts.

Behind them the searchlights stabbed and crisscrossed and wavered. Then the ground guns began to blast, and tracer bullets arched upward like rockets in a celebration. The muck over lower London was thick and the searchlights began to pick out black shapes. Then came the bombs. They smashed into roofs and went splintering on to blow houses to bits. They rent and ripped mortar and stone and brick. People were buried under the debris.

Stan banked steeply and shouted into his flap mike. "They've slipped in behind 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 the raging fires below or do anything about the shattered buildings, but they 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 dive down, like a streak of dark shadow, straight upon a Junkers that was flying along in a manner that suggested it thought it was over unprotected territory. O'Malley's guns drilled fire and the Junkers'

right wing flipped upward and faded into the night. Then the killer nosed over and went down like a flaming torch.

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

Having made contact Moon Flight really went to work. Their first savage attack had broken up the spear-shaped Stuka formation. Now they gave their attention to individual combat. There was no need for commands from anyone. They swung about on invisible hairpins and screamed after the big fellows.

It didn't take so very long. Stuka after Stuka went down. From the black pit above the Jerry fighters were diving down to see what had happened to 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 last of the raiders. This done, they nosed upward to meet the Messerschmitts as eagerly as they had attacked the killers. They were overeager to contact the fighters and one of them caught a crossfire as he roared in.

His ship went slithering off to the west, spinning madly. The Spits darted through the flame filled sky. They flipped over and spun and dived, always seeking targets to make their guns flame.

Stan sent his Spitfire into a screaming revers.e.m.e.nt, tipped out of it with his guns hammering as he laid his sights on a leering swastika. It was over quickly. The Messerschmitts had no stomach for such a deadly game. After a gesture at rescuing their bombers, they fled into the night.

"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. After a battle in the sky the voice of a pal always sounds good. He bent forward.

"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 men for the raider shift. He toyed with the idea of slipping by and checking Garret's guns, but gave it up. Garret would be wise enough to fire a burst 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 impressive score they had chalked up--ten Stukas and six Messerschmitts. They knew that if they had headed west they would have stopped the raid.

No one challenged Garret when he claimed one Stuka and a Messerschmitt.

n.o.body spoke to him. They went on into the mess and flopped down to wait for the metallic voice of the intersquadron speaker.

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

CHAPTER IX

SPECIAL MISSION

Stan was further mystified the next day when Garret came to him in the mess. He was smiling and very friendly.

"I have been a rotter, Wilson," he said and held out his hand. "After all, this is pretty serious business and there isn't much place for personal grudges and gripes."

Stan hid his surprise. He could find no words to answer Garret. He shook hands with the Squadron Leader. Garret slapped him on the back.

"I have the toughest gang of sky-busters in the whole Royal Air Force,"

Garret said. "We'll see that no more bombs land on London."

As he walked away Stan looked after him. Now that Garret had left him he could think of several things he might have said. Allison came up and there was a mocking leer on his face.

"So you are teacher's pet from now on?"

"Search me, but I still don't think he likes me," Stan said.

"He's about to collar O'Malley." Allison chuckled. "I'd give a new shilling to hear what that Irishman tells him."

It happened they were near enough, because O'Malley bawled out what he had to say so loudly it could have been heard out on the field. Garret had halted and was smilingly giving O'Malley the glad hand. He stepped back a pace and his face flushed as the Irisher cut loose.

"Sure, an' ye can save yer blarney!" O'Malley roared. "I'd as soon hang one on that hooked beak of yours as to be after lookin' at ye!"

Garret backed up a step and lifted one hand. Stan and Allison could not hear what he said, but the officers near the pair were openly grinning.