A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F Part 19

O'Malley loosed one more blast and his words brought chill, brittle silence to the room.

"I'm a thinkin' you'd best head the Moon Flight in the right direction when the spalpeens come over again."

The clicking of Garret's heels was the only sound in the room. He marched out without a word. Everyone looked about uneasily. Such talk to a Squadron Leader was unheard of. Any other commander would have had O'Malley's hide off in a minute and draped all over the place. The very fact that the Irishman had gotten away with it had a depressing effect upon the fliers. Allison broke the spell. He barged over to O'Malley and shoved out his hand.

"Shake, Irisher," he said.

Judd, Mcc.u.mber, and Kelley, all men who had belonged to the first spread Stan had been with, strolled over and a little group formed around O'Malley. Judd squinted up at the lank Irishman. He was a short, chubby-faced youngster of nineteen. His face was beaming happily.

"I'd never had the courage to talk like that to a Squadron Leader. I just went into a funk when he soaped me."

O'Malley squinted down at Judd. "'Tis with me own eyes I saw you cut the fire of three Messers, me bye. Don't you be blatherin' me about courage."

Judd flushed. He was all right when he was up there by himself, but he was bashful in a crowd. Mcc.u.mber looked across at Allison.

"Red Flight should get a break after this," he said meaningly.

Allison grinned wolfishly. "Really, now, Mac, Garret knows every boy in Moon Flight loves him."

Kelley had not spoken nor had he laughed with the others. "He'd better stay out of my circle. I have folks living out beyond Kensington Gardens."

No one said anything more about the raids. They all knew Kelley's home had been smashed that night and that his father had been injured.

Allison changed the subject.

"We certainly should get rid of Garret for the good of the service. He's no fit leader and the squadron will go into a funk under him."

"How will we do it?" Mac asked.

"I don't know, but it has to be done. A decent leader would have wiped the floor with O'Malley and then grounded him for the rest of the war.

A yellow streak has no place in this outfit."

The men nodded their heads. What they could not understand was how Garret had gotten the job. They felt helpless because they had always depended upon the men at headquarters. Finally the group broke up without anyone offering a workable plan.

Just after noon the next day the O.C. sent for Stan. He was alone in his office and in very good spirits. Stan sat down beside his desk and waited.

"We have a few Hendee Hawks coming in," Farrell beamed happily. "You are the man to handle them and to show the boys their fine points. In fact, you're the only man we have who can do it quickly. We need those superfighters badly. Headquarters would like to do a little daylight bombing. Do you think a flight of Hawks could take a squadron of Liberators through?"

"They could," Stan a.s.sured him. "Give me nine Hawks and my pick of pilots and well ride right in over Berlin."

"You won't get nine for a while, but we have three coming in." The Wing Commander seemed interested in what Stan thought of that.

"Three will take a small flight through," Stan said.

"I have to depend on you, Wilson. Without you, it will take several weeks to get them lined out and set for action."

"We need train only one man. Allison can learn quickly." Stan smiled broadly. "O'Malley learned in a couple of flights."

The O.C. smiled, too. "Yes, your pie-eating friend will handle one, if we can drill some sense into his head."

"O'Malley's crazy but it's the sort of lunacy we need," Stan answered dryly.

Farrell nodded. He was already thinking about other things. "The Royal Air Force considered this shipment so important they routed the freighter north to avoid submarines and Stukas. It seems n.a.z.i agents found out when she left. She had quite a trip and was chased far north, damaged by a sub and finally landed at our naval base in the Shetlands."

"We pick them up up there?"

"I'm sending you up there to service them and get them ready. When you have them set up and ready to fly, I'll send Allison and O'Malley up there to help you bring them back."

Stan waited but the O.C. had nothing more to say, so he got to his feet.

"When do I leave?"

"As soon as you can get away."

"Do I fly a Spitfire?"

The O.C. considered this for a long minute. At last he nodded. "You're too valuable a man to be shot down by stray raiders."

"I'll be on my way in an hour," Stan said as he snapped a salute.

As Stan swung out of the office he almost collided with Garret.

"Whoa there, you're in a big rush, aren't you?" Garret asked with a grin.

"Sorry," Stan grunted and was off.

As he strode across the field he got to wondering if Garret had been listening at the door. It didn't seem possible. Eavesdropping in an officer of Garret's standing would have laughed him out of the service if he had been caught. He dismissed it from his mind.

He told Allison and O'Malley about his plans and warned them not to mention his trip to anyone. Allison grinned lazily. O'Malley was excited.

"Sure, an' the war's about over," he boasted. "With me coaxing one of them sweet colleens through the skies there won't be a Jerry left in a week."

"You lugs come a-rattling when I send in the call," Stan said as he strode toward his quarters.

A half-hour later he was kicking his Spitfire into line. He was into the air swiftly and laid his course across the serene green countryside to pick up the sh.o.r.e of the North Sea at the nearest point.

At that height it was difficult to realize he was in the sky above a war-torn nation. There were no evidences of destruction below, and the blue sky was clear of enemy planes. The steady throbbing roar of the Spitfire's motor was a pleasantly lulling sound, and he settled back comfortably with his mind at ease, checking over the structural details of the Hendee Hawks in his mind for use in putting the dismantled ships together as fast as possible when he landed at the naval base where they awaited him.

It was pleasant to be out of danger for this brief period. It gave him a chance to examine his thoughts, do a little readjusting of his personal concepts to the grim realities of war. He found he had been under such terrific tension every instant since reporting to the Red Flight that this was the first chance he had found to look back over what had happened and realize how supremely lucky he had been thus far to escape death.

Flying at 4,000 feet, he appeared to be merely creeping across the green blanket of England beneath him. Ahead, he could faintly see a silver line of mist marking the sh.o.r.e of the sea. Though the Spitfire was tunneling through the blue at 350 miles an hour, he suddenly found he was impatient for even more speed. Behind him men were even now fighting and dying. He wanted to get back into it, start doing his part again.

An alien sound obtruded suddenly into the throbbing of his Spitfire. He heard it almost without consciousness of what it portended, then was abruptly aware that a stream of bullets was ripping through his fuselage.

A Heinkel had slid up behind him from nowhere and its smoking guns were streaming hot, leaden death at him. For a moment he was too amazed to properly meet this unexpected danger. He had a curious feeling that it was after _him_. That it wasn't merely a stray enemy plane making chance contact. It was an absurd thought, but it gripped him strongly and he couldn't shake it off.

Another burst of lead hosed from the Heinkel. Stan rolled the Spitfire to the left, then pulled it up tight and hard. The Heinkel shot under him, went into a loop, then faked a turnover. Stan smiled grimly.

"That won't fool me, son," he muttered. He leveled off fast and eased over into a three hundred yard safety zone. Setting the Spit on her ear, he faced the Heinkel, testing his Brownings as he slid into place.