"I'll bet the spalpeen will get a scare when you walk into that hangar," O'Malley said with a grin.
Stan got to his feet. "I'm going out there just as soon as I get some clothes. I warn you, O'Malley, this is my fight. You stay out of it."
O'Malley's eyes glittered. "I niver could stay out of a good scrap, but if you wade into him I'm thinkin' there won't be anything left for me to do but pick up the pieces."
"You better keep a tight hand on your temper, old chap," Allison warned.
"I will. I'll have the low-down before I sock him," Stan promised.
A half-hour later, dressed in one of Allison's uniforms, and looking little worse for his ducking, Stan strolled into the hangar.Garret was not about so he went to the crew that had handled his ship. They were really glad to see him, he was sure of that. He looked them over and had a feeling none of them had had any part in the plot.
"Who gassed my Spitfire before she went out on the last raid?" His eyes moved from man to man.
A corporal stepped forward. "I did, sir."
"Was the tank full when you rolled her out?"
"Yes, sir. I rechecked. She was full up." The corporal was positive.
"Did you gas her up immediately before the flight?"
"No, we always gas up as soon as the Spits come in, so they'll be ready without delay. Sometimes they go right back up."
Stan nodded. He had known that. "Was the squad out for breakfast?"
A sergeant spoke up. "Yes, sir. Lieutenant Garret sent us all out together. Squad Four was on duty down the line and could keep an eye on things and shove out for us if a call came."
"He went with you?"
"Yes, he walked as far as his mess with us."
Stan smiled. "Thanks," he said. "My gas turned out a bit short and I got a ducking in the channel."
He saw the men begin eying each other when he said that. He turned and walked away. Garret had fixed himself a slick alibi. Stan was sure he would have little luck cracking it. As he neared the door Arch Garret entered.
"Hello, Garret," Stan said and grinned.
Garret stared at him for a minute, then his dark face flushed and his eyes gleamed with smouldering anger. He stepped closer to Stan.
"You think you can railroad me clean out of this man's army, but you'll get yours, and I'll be back in the air again."
"If any other funny things happen to my ship I'm going to take a poke at that pretty face of yours," Stan said.
Garret quickly backed away and hurried into the hangar. Stan walked across the square to his mess. Garret was a dangerous fellow, there was no mistake about that, andhe hated Stan Wilson. Stan had a feeling, too, that Garret was going to make good on his threat.
He wasn't sure how Garret intended to do it, or how much the fellow knew, but there was no doubt he was a dangerous antagonist. And Stan had an uncomfortable feeling that Garret knew or at least suspected the truth about a certain phase of Stan Wilson's past that Stan had hoped he could leave behind him when he came across the sea to fight the Nazi war machine.
But that, he grimly told himself, was too much to hope for. No man can ever wholly escape his past. Fate has a way of stepping in and smashing the best-laid plans of humans. And Stan had a premonition that Fate had selected Arch Garret as its instrument to ruin his careful plans.
O'Malley sat at a table with a whole pie before him. He sliced it neatly across, then turned it half around and sliced it across again. Allison snorted his contempt while Stan watched, a grin on his face.
"Niver be it said an O'Malley is hoggish. Will ye have a wee slab o' pie, Mister Wilson or Mister Allison?"
"Thanks, no," Stan answered. "I'm carrying all the ballast I can handle right now."
"I say, old chap, could that be the second or is it the third pie you've had this afternoon?" Allison cocked an eye at O'Malley whose big mouth was open to receive almost half of one piece of pie.
O'Malley munched the pie. "'Tis but the third, Commander, and niggardly pies they make, too. Take the pies Mrs. O'Malleymakes, now they are pies." He grinned as he slid his hand under another quarter of pie.
At that moment an orderly appeared and handed Allison a slip of paper. Allison read it and scribbled a notation on it, handing it back to the orderly.
"Nothin' iver happens in this here spot," O'Malley was complaining as he fell upon the third quarter of pie. "And this mess has no idea of a proper pie. They have nothing but berry pie, which is little in the way of pie."
"We'll be back on night flights up the glory trail by tomorrow night, O'Malley," Allison said. "But right now the O.C. wants to talk to the three of us in his office."
O'Malley gathered up the rest of the pie. Allison scowled.
"I say, Irisher, you can't go in on the O.C. with a platter of pie in your hand."
"Sure, and that's a fact," O'Malley agreed. "Hold onto yerselves, boys, and I'll fix it according to regulations." He shoved half the piece of pie into his mouth.
Allison and Stan waited until he had finished. Then the three of them headed for the O.C.'s office. Their rap at the door wasanswered by a gruff voice and they entered.
The O.C. was a grizzled veteran of World War I. He looked at them with grim satisfaction. They were three of the best men he had, flying fools, ready to tackle any assignment.
"Sit down, gentlemen," he said gruffly.
They sat down, O'Malley slumping into his chair with his head thrust forward. He looked lank and hungry as he sat there and anyone except Stan and Allison would have said he hadn't had a square meal in a week.
The O.C. picked up a sheet of paper and stared at it, then he glowered at the three fliers. He cleared his throat and tapped the sheet of paper. His eyes were upon O'Malley. Suddenly he put the paper down.
"Something reminds me I have not had a bite to eat so far today," he said. "Do you boys mind if I have something sent in while I'm talking with you? I won't be able to get away later."
"Certainly not, sir," Allison said.
The O.C. was still looking at O'Malley. "Will you boys join me? A spot of tea or something?"
Before Allison or Stan could politely refuse, O'Malley answered, "Well, sir, I'm not partial to tea, but I could manage with a wee slab o' pie."
Allison glared at him while Stan struggled to smother a grin. The O.C. looked at them. "Would you boys have some pie?"
"No, thanks," both spoke in unison.
The O.C. rang and an orderly appeared. He took the Commander's order and hurried away. When the door closed the O.C. turned to Allison.
"I always get the bad part of every deal. Before me I have an order transferring you three men to Croydon Field. As soon as I get a few satisfactory men around me they are taken away." He looked sourly at O'Malley as though blaming him. "Take this wild man, O'Malley. He has begun to attract notice."
"It's been so quiet no man could attract notice," O'Malley said gloomily.
The O.C. smiled and fished another paper out of a tray. "Twenty-four hours in the air," he read. "Three Dornier bombers and two Messerschmitt fighters shot down byLieutenant O'Malley." He slid the report into a file. "So this is quiet, eh?" He actually smiled as he said it.
The orderly returned with a tray which O'Malley eyed hopefully. The O.C. lifted a cloth from his luncheon. The orderly carried a plate to O'Malley and handed him a fork. O'Malley waved the fork aside and scooped the pie off the plate. Sadly, he inspected it. It was blueberry, the same as his mess was supplying. Out of the side of his mouth he said:
"Ah well, it will do, but I thought it might be the O.C. ate at a different mess."
"You boys will report to headquarters at Croydon at once." He looked at O'Malley and a startled expression came over his face. The Irisher's pie had disappeared.
"Yes, sir," Allison said and got to his feet.
The O.C. got to his feet and his wintry face cracked into a thin smile as he shook hands with each of the boys.
"This is quite a war and we have to hit as hard as we can and all pull together. They need you more at Croydon than I do here. Good luck to you."
The three snapped salutes and faced about.They hurried out of the building and across the square. Within a half-hour they were packed and ready for the car that was to take them to their new home.
"I'm not sorry saying good-by to those bloated balloons," Allison said as he looked up toward the south.
"I'm glad I'm leaving. It will save me punching a fellow officer in the jaw," Stan said grimly.
"There won't be anything excitin' goin' on over there," O'Malley said sourly.
"They may have some other kind of pie." Allison grinned.
An eager light came into O'Malley's eye. "Sure, and that's a thought worth rememberin'," he muttered.
The mess at Croydon was a large room and had a phonograph as well as a console radio. There was a nice assortment of old but comfortable chairs and lounges, and there was a counter where food and drinks were served. The three members of Red Flight arrived at the mess about the same time.
O'Malley saw the counter at once and his eyes lighted eagerly. Back of the counter were shelves and on one of the shelves sat ahalf-dozen pies. A Wing Commander and a Squadron Leader were leaning against the center of the counter. Allison was for barging on past without disturbing the superior officers, but O'Malley had his eyes on the pie shelf.
"Shove in, me hearties, the treat's on Mrs. O'Malley's son."
O'Malley shoved in beside the Wing Commander with Stan and Allison facing him.
"Tea," Allison ordered.
"Coffee, black," Stan said.
"Pie." O'Malley said it hungerly.
The corporal behind the pie counter fixed Allison's pot of tea and poured Stan's coffee, then he turned to O'Malley.
"What kind of pie, sir?"
For a moment O'Malley was struck dumb over his great good luck. This mess had a choice of pie.
"Apple," he said hopefully.
The corporal set a brown crusted pie on the counter and poised a knife over it. O'Malley reached over and took the knife. He proceeded to cut the pie four ways.
"But I say, sir, we don't cut pies that way.It's against regulations, sir." The corporal was plainly flustered.
"Indaid?" O'Malley said. "An' could ye put down the whole pie in me chit book?"
"Of course, sir, but really if you let me cut it, sir, it wouldn't be ruined and you'll pay for only the portion you eat."
"Ah," O'Malley said and slid a quarter of the pie out of the tin and into his big hand. The corporal watched with fascination as the slab disappeared.
The Wing Commander was talking and the three junior officers could not avoid overhearing him.
"The Messerschmitt One-Tens coming over lately have a new gun. We'd like to get our hands on one of them, but so far we haven't salvaged anything."
"How about Intelligence in France? They ought to be able to get us something," said the Squadron Leader.
"No, if we get one it will be by pure accident," the Wing Commander answered sourly.
O'Malley was starting on his third pieceof pie. He had it in his hand and halfway to his open mouth. He lowered it and swung around to face the Wing Commander.
"The aisiest thing in the world, gettin' one of them guns," he said.
The Wing Commander turned toward O'Malley and looked from his face to the big slab of pie and then back again. His manner dripped frost. Allison got a glimpse of his insignia and kicked O'Malley on the shin. O'Malley grinned at the Wing Commander, then took a big bite of pie. The Wing Commander stiffened and snorted like a Merlin backfiring on a sub-zero morning.
"Did you speak, sir?" he asked.
O'Malley was unabashed, even when the Wing Commander bent a frigid look upon the wreck of the apple pie on the plate at his elbow.
"I said it would be aisy, gettin' one of them new guns," O'Malley repeated.
"Perhaps you can bring one to my office not later than tomorrow night," the Wing Commander snapped.
"And may I ask who I'll deliver it to?" O'Malley opened his mouth and the rest of the pie disappeared into it.
Signs of apoplexy began to show on the Wing Commander's face, but his voice was steady.
"Just deliver it to Wing Commander Farrell."
"Sure, an' I'll hand it to ye personal," O'Malley promised.
The Wing Commander bowed stiffly and turned away. The Squadron Leader wiped a smile off his lips and stared stonily at O'Malley. They marched off together.
"Now you've done it, you Irisher," Allison growled. "That's the man we have to fly under and I have to report to him within a half-hour."
"'Tis a lot too many brass hats this man's army has around and I don't like them, but I'll do this Wing Commander a favor, bein' as he seemed a bit worked up over that new Jerry gun." O'Malley looked at the pie counter but shook his head. Five pies in one afternoon might spoil his dinner and he planned to enjoy a real feed.
Allison shoved off to report to the O.C. while Stan and O'Malley went over to the phonograph and turned it on. O'Malley lay on a divan with his feet well above his head.Stan sat back in a deep chair. Before dozing off he wanted to ask the Irisher a question.
"Whatever made you pull that crack to the Wing Commander?"
"Sure, an' I was just offerin' to do me bit of winnin' the war," O'Malley said and closed his eyes.
Stan stared at him. It suddenly dawned upon him that O'Malley hadn't been fooling, he meant to deliver a Messerschmitt One-Ten to Wing Commander Farrell. He began to laugh. O'Malley opened his eyes and a grieved expression came over his face.
"You laughin' at me?" he demanded and there was a dangerous glint in his dark eyes.
"No," Stan said slowly. "I was thinking about how Wing Commander Farrell will look when you plump that gun down on his desk."
O'Malley grinned and closed his eyes again. "I'll let you go along with me," he said.
Stan studied the wild Irishman. He knew enough about O'Malley to expect anything from him. There could be no doubt but that Red Flight was in for some real circus stuffthe next day. He hoped they contacted a flight of Messerschmitt One-Tens over the channel. He had no relish for the idea of trailing O'Malley into Germany and covering him while he filched a gun from one of Hitler's arsenals, but he was anxious to find out what scheme the Irisher had up his sleeve.
Allison came back and plumped into a chair. "I was lucky. The Wing Commander never suspected that I was with this wild Irishman. He thinks our hungry friend here is a ground man escaped from a nut-house."
O'Malley made no comeback. He was sound asleep, his Adam's apple riding up and down gently, his lips moving as he snored deeply. Stan said in a low voice:
"He meant it when he offered to get a gun for the O.C."
"Now, now, you Yanks are gullible, everyone knows that, old man, but you shouldn't be taken in so easy."
"You wait and see," Stan said. "We'll have to stick with him no matter what fool stunt he pulls."
"Sure, old chap," Allison agreed, but the sardonic twist of his mouth showed he thought Stan as crazy as O'Malley. He got to his feet. "Don't let him miss dinner or we'll have trouble. We aren't on the call list until tomorrow morning. I have a bid to a bit of a dinner outside tonight."
"Gal?" Stan asked.
"Gal," Allison agreed.
"I'll wake the Irisher up," Stan promised.
The next morning Allison came barging into the breakfast room glowering savagely. He dropped into a chair across from Stan and O'Malley and snapped his order at the corporal. O'Malley gave him a brief look, then returned to his job of spreading jam on a huge stack of hot cakes which were flanked by a double order of sausages. The lank Irisher was not in a talkative mood. Stan grinned at Allison.
"What's eating on you? Did some civilian steal your gal?"
Allison glared at him. "We have friends over here at Croydon. The way they run a war! You'd think somebody would wake up to a few things!"
"What sort of an assignment did we get?" Stan was sure Allison was riled over the assignment they had been given.
"Nursing a flock of coal barges through the channel. Just big, lumbering boats not worth as much as the coal inside them. The Jerries won't waste a pound of T.N.T. on any of them. The only chance we'll have will be if they try to dive bomb a destroyer tagging along." Allison jerked a plate of bacon and eggs to him and shot a hard look at the corporal. "Black coffee," he snapped.
"We rate better than that," Stan said.
"My dear fellow," Allison spoke with elaborate politeness. "We have a friend over in the flight office. He got himself transferred yesterday so as to be helpful to us."
"He couldn't be anyone I know," Stan said.
"But of course he is. He is a dear friend of yours. In fact you offered to punch his nose for him once."
"Not Garret?" Stan stared at Allison.
"Lieutenant Arch Garret."
"How did he do it with a blackball against him?" Stan demanded.
"Pull, my dear fellow, as the Americans say. A drag somewhere. Now he's sitting where he can retire Red Flight to a peaceful life, and if we do bag a bandit, we'll have to have an affidavit from the King to get credit for it."
"How about a transfer?"
"No go, he'd have a finger in that too. In fact, my dear fellow, I applied for a transfer and got turned down, all before breakfast."
Stan looked across at O'Malley who was on his last hot cake. He was beaming pleasantly, his eyes looking out across the room. He had paid no attention at all to the bad news.
"You seem to like it, O'Malley," Allison growled.
"Huh?" the Irisher said with a start. Then he grinned. "'Tis a poor spot in the channel that has no Messerschmitt One-Tens poking about in the clouds."
"And we'll sit around warming a chair waiting for a chance at a single or a double," Allison snapped.
"Sure, an' I can't be worried this mornin'," O'Malley said and got to his feet.
"What's got into him?" Allison asked sourly.
"You wouldn't believe it if I told you," Stan said with a wide grin.
Allison glared at him, and muttered, "You two make me tired."
No call came for Red Flight until late afternoon. Other flights roared away to strafe the French coast, or to meet incoming bomber formations, or to do scout duty; but Allison and his crew just sat around and groused. O'Malley's good humor finally broke down and he began prowling around hurling choice Irish words at the mess crew.
When the call did come, he was out of the room like a wild bushman. By the time Allison and Stan reached the cab rank, he was jerking his hatch cover into place and feeling out his Merlin.
"You'd think the boy was off to raid Berlin," Allison said sourly. "All we have is a call from a few barges of coal."
Red Flight roared out and up, heading toward the channel. Stan had checked his instruments carefully. Everything seemedto be in working order, though he could not be sure of his wing guns until he opened them up.
"Keep in close," Allison's voice droned.
They were up now and heading for the channel where a few big clouds hung over the sea. So far as Stan could see they were kings of the air and there might have been no war on at all. Not a wing was in sight except their own.
"Red Flight, level off."
They leveled off and headed for a big cloud. That seemed the most likely hunting ground. The three Spitfires were not up high because the clouds were hanging over the sea. Below, Stan saw the cause of their call. Seven of the foulest old tubs he had ever laid an eye on were churning and wallowing in the choppy sea. Their propellers thrashed the water into tawny foam. Their plates were scarred and patched with daubs of vermillion. Red, rusty streams of water trickled down their sides. Seven piles of rust, grime and junk belching smoke like so many volcanoes. Coasters and not one of them over twelve hundred tons.
The boats rode high and Stan decided theywere making the run from Portsmouth to London under ballast to pick up coal. Running what was supposed to be a death channel the old tubs would slide under the big coastal guns of the Germans. In a few days they would plough back loaded with coal. Their audacity made Stan grin. The British were certainly a stubborn race of people and when they had a sea course marked out they stayed with it. A sleek gray destroyer nosed the string of ancient boats along like a nervous hound herding a flock of fat pigs.
"Two bandits coming out of a cloud, quarter right," Allison's drawl announced.
Stan spotted the two Heinkel bombers as soon as Allison spoke. They were slim-bodied, snaky-looking killers with long wings and widespread tail structures. Their pilots hadn't seen the three Spitfires as yet, being busy spotting the sleek destroyer.
When they did see the danger they zoomed up and laid over, plunging back into the cloud. Stan drove straight after them because he was in the best position. O'Malley swept around one side of the cloud and Allison went around the other.
Stan had a chance to test his guns as hisupward zoom rode him up on a ghostly form ahead in the mist. The eight Brownings drilled furiously, in perfect timing. The Heinkel nosed down and vanished into the wall of fog. Stan went down to see if he had done any damage.
Breaking into the clear he saw blossoms of white silk dotting the green of the sea. The bombers were gone but Stan knew from the number of chutes floating down to the water that both Heinkels had been bagged.
Below them two motor launches were slicing across the channel getting set to pick up the Jerries and make them prisoners. Then he heard O'Malley's voice.
"Sure, an' I'm thinkin' I see four Messers off the port wing."
"Coming up with you," Allison called back. "Take them, Irisher."
"Wilson coming up," Stan shouted into his flap mike.
He went up and over a cloud and down on the other side. He saw O'Malley drilling away to the south like an irate bumblebee. Close behind him streaked Allison. Stan headed after them. Then Allison's voice came in very softly:
"I think you're seeing things, Irisher."
Stan grinned as he shoved the nose of the Spitfire down a little. O'Malley was duck hunting. He didn't aim to go back without some more action if he could help it.
"Red Flight, come in. Red Flight, come in," droned a voice from the field.
"Red Flight in contact with bandits!" O'Malley roared back.
"Red Flight, come in. Red Flight, come in," headquarters insisted.
"Red Flight going into defense," Allison cut in.
Stan's grin widened. Allison was going to see that O'Malley got his duck hunt. They roared on, swinging in a wide circle, beating upward again. O'Malley would have his way now. Allison couldn't argue with headquarters listening in.
Stan began to think they were stymied when all Hades broke loose from above. Out of nowhere five Messerschmitts came roaring down on them, three One-Nines and two One-Tens.
"Prepare for attack. Peel off and take some altitude," Allison drawled.
"Start peelin', darlin'," O'Malley shouted.
They zoomed upward, spreading to let the attack slide past. The enemy scattered out and swooped to meet them. Stan saw O'Malley drive straight over a One-Nine almost ramming the Jerry, and missing him clean with a burst of fire. That was not like O'Malley.
The Jerry banked and flipped over, thinking only of getting away before O'Malley cut back across him and sawed him in two parts; but O'Malley kept straight on. Stan picked up the One-Nine, scissoring off a wing tip and sending him wavering away toward the east.
Stan watched O'Malley as the wild Irishman zoomed up over a One-Ten. The Messerschmitt banked and tried to escape, but O'Malley was on him in a reckless roaring dive. Stan shot over the two and saw the Jerry spray O'Malley's ship with lead. Pieces of his hatch cover showered away like feathers from a potted duck. Again O'Malley missed a perfect burst and came up under the Jerry. He returned the complimentpaid him by slicing the top off the Messerschmitt's hatch cover. Stan knew the miss had been deliberate. O'Malley never let one get away when he had a spot shot like that.
Then light dawned upon Stan. O'Malley was after the Jerry's gun. Allison was very busy himself and doing such a savage job that he was about to clear the air without Stan's help. Stan dived down to make the game one against one for Allison. When he came up, O'Malley was on the tail of the Messerschmitt and bawling at Allison:
"By the shades of St. Patrick, you keep out of this!"
The Jerry was hurt, but not badly, and O'Malley had him on the run. When the Jerry dived O'Malley was on his tail. He didn't shoot him down. When he dropped off on one wing, peeling away under full throttle, O'Malley had him covered. Then Stan heard the Irisher yelling at the Jerry pilot.
"Leave that gun like she is, you spalpeen, or I'll send you to the fishes!"
Apparently the Jerry did not understand what O'Malley said, possibly his radiowasn't set to pick up the transmitter of the Spitfire, but he did understand the short bursts of fire that clipped pieces out of various parts of his ship. He headed the way the lank Irishman pointed and drove ahead.
Allison and Stan dropped in behind, letting O'Malley have his prize. Stan called to Allison:
"Somebody ought to tip off the Ack-Ack boys or O'Malley may get a warm reception."
"Let him show his stuff," Allison drawled and Stan thought he heard the Flight Lieutenant chuckle.
The Messerschmitt ducked over the coast and down with O'Malley steering him expertly to the field. Bursts of gunfire began to blossom below and puffs of white smoke broke around the Jerry and his pursuer.
"They think O'Malley's Spitfire is a captured plane with a Jerry in it," Stan muttered.
O'Malley sent his catch down through the shellfire, twisting and turning. The Nazi pilot was an expert and wiggled through until they got close in, then the fire got so hot heand O'Malley had to hit for the ceiling. They circled and were high up when Stan and Allison slid down the field.
Undaunted, O'Malley came in again and this time he sent his prize through the rain of exploding shells. The Messerschmitt rolled to a stop with O'Malley close behind him. In a moment the flustered Jerry was climbing out of his shattered hatch with his hands elevated above his head.
Ground men closed in around him, shouting and doing a war dance. O'Malley climbed out after removing part of the hatch cover from around his neck. He strode to the Messerschmitt and bellowed at the ground men.
"Git ye a hump on yerselves an' pull out that fore gun!"
Four mechanics raced away to get tools while O'Malley stood guard over his prize. He refused to let anyone touch the ship. A senior ground officer came hurrying up and O'Malley gave him a sloppy salute. The officer snapped:
"I'll take charge here now."
"Ye'll do nothing of the sort," O'Malleyshouted. "And as I live and breathe them's Wing Commander Farrell's very orders!"
The officer looked at the wild-eyed O'Malley and decided it would be best to wait for reinforcements, possibly a Group Captain or an Air Commodore.
"It's my job, you know, old man," he said but his tone had changed.
"'Tis my job, me hearty," O'Malley assured him.
The mechanics arrived and in a few minutes the fore gun was on the ground at O'Malley's feet. It was so heavy he could not handle it. He turned to the grinning Stan who was standing beside Allison.
"Lend a hand so we can deliver this gadget before sundown."
Stan and Allison stepped forward.
"This is positively against regulations," the senior officer sputtered.
"An' who, may I ask, bagged this here gun?" O'Malley demanded. "I may be bold, but I suggest ye give some attention to that Jerry waitin' over there to be captured accordin' to regulations."
The Jerry was standing with his arms stillelevated. He was alone and unguarded.
"And be lettin' O'Malley of Red Flight be knowin' where you put the bye. I aim to see that he has cigarettes and a few of the common comforts." O'Malley grinned at the Jerry. The youngster grinned back at him and saluted stiffly.
Dragging the gun between them, the three members of Red Flight stamped across the field and barged past a startled sentry who was walking post outside headquarters.
Wing Commander Farrell was just finishing a flight report. His gray eyes were hard and his mouth was drawn into a tight line. Coral Raid had dropped two bombers and three fighters. The credit side showed only one fighter and a Junkers. Farrell looked up and his eyes rested upon a lank and hungry-looking Irish youth. He stared at O'Malley for a long minute, then remembered him and his pie.
"What do you want, Lieutenant?" he snapped. "I suppose you have that new enemy gun in your pocket."
His sarcasm was lost upon O'Malley. He grinned wolfishly as he stepped aside.
"Indaid, an' I hope it's the latest model.I put a very good Jerry flier to a lot of trouble to be after fetchin' it to you."
The Wing Commander's eyes popped out as he stared at the machine Allison and Stan had dropped upon the floor. Suddenly he leaped out of his chair and charged around the desk. Getting down on his knees, he bent over the gun and examined it. When he straightened he was smiling.
"So you are the wild Irishman we have been hearing about," he said. "It would seem some rumors are correct in this war."
"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 andfrowning 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.
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 suitand 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 hemight do it for quite a while. Not that his conscience wasn't clear. He had been framed. Framed by Nazi 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 passed 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 assembly. The Wing Commander wasbeing 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?"
Stan restrained a smothering eagerness. He wanted to jump up and down and shout, to slap the Commander on the back. A lotof experts had turned thumbs down on the Hawk. But the saboteur boys had known she was the super-plane and had done everything they could to get her junked, including a nice frame-up on himself. He knew they had just about succeeded if there was only one ship here in Britain.
"I'll fly her, sir," he said and added eagerly, "she is the greatest combination of fighter and strafing plane ever built. She packs enough bombs to do real damage, as well."
The Wing Commander smiled. "We shall see," he said.
The way he said it convinced Stan it was up to him to show both the British and the Jerries just what the Hendee Hawk could do. If this ship failed, there would be no more of the machines he had worked so hard to help perfect.
"She carries two men," Stan said.
"I have been considering that." Suddenly the Wing Commander laughed outright. "Do you suppose your friend, the pie-eating Irishman, would care to work with you? I should like to have Allison become familiar with the ship, too. In thatway we would have three men able to instruct others if we order more of these fighters."
"I don't know," Stan said honestly.
"I could assign them to you, but I prefer to let you ask them," Farrell said. Then he got to his feet. "You will report to 7-B at once."
Stan grinned broadly. It would take him away from Garret, at least until the snooping Lieutenant was able to locate him again. He saluted and hurried out of the office.
Stan actually sneaked into the mess. He couldn't afford to have this chance smashed by a cluck like Garret. The coast was clear. Only a few fliers were lounging about, with Allison and O'Malley among them. Stan crossed the room and sat down between his pals. He did not notice, in his excitement, that they seemed to be expecting him. The clock over the counter showed that in one minute Allison and O'Malley would go on duty. He wondered who would fill in for him in Red Flight.
"Sure, an' you've been shunnin' us," O'Malley greeted him.
Stan came to the point at once. "Howwould you like to copilot a real ship, an American ship?" he asked, looking from one to the other.
"I'd prefer a glider," Allison said with a wicked leer.
"How about you, Irisher?"
"I wouldn't mind if me pal didn't hog the controls all the blessed time." O'Malley grinned.
"She's a stinger. You'll see something you never thought was in the bag. She's tricky as a Navaho Indian."
"Is that a Canadian tribe of wild men?" Allison drawled.
"Sure," Stan came back. "Hudson's Bay."
Allison snorted.
"I'm with you," O'Malley cut in. "Anything to get off this deadhead beat the muckle heads have us on. Mrs. O'Malley's boy came down to London to see some action."
"Good. I'll get in touch with the O.C. at once." Stan got to his feet.
"Really, old chap, you're not going to rush off without my final answer. I'm in on this if I have to fly a kite," Allison said with a wide smile.
Stan put on a cold expression. Allison hadn't fooled him. He had known the lank Britisher would come in. Allison had that look in his eye he always got when something was up.
"Thanks, Allison."
"You should thank me. I'm giving up a flight lieutenant's job."
"You'll still be leader and we'll demand the Red Flight label. We'll have three of the meanest brutes that ever rolled out on a line to make the other boys jealous." Stan slapped Allison on the back. "Let's go."
They reported to the Wing Commander, then shifted their things to B-7. Later they went over to the hangar to have a look at the Hawk. Allison said very little, but O'Malley was as tickled as a kid with a new top. He went over everything and the only thing he crabbed about was the cramped quarters furnished for the copilot, who handled the bomb release and the extra guns.
They checked in at their new mess and Stan felt better. He looked in at the briefing room and found it presided over by a fat young man with a broad smile. In the mess he met no one he knew. Everything lookedfine and he settled down to watch O'Malley devour a pie.
O'Malley finished his pie and looked hungerly across the room at the counter in the corner. He shook his head sadly.
"If I eat one more me lunch will be spoilt sure."
Stan grinned as he glanced at his wrist watch. It lacked a half-hour until official eating time.
After lunch they made further arrangements for their new job. Allison was to fly with them in a Spitfire. O'Malley went along with Stan as a gunner and student, with care of the bomb racks in his hands. With everything set and ready to go, the revised and rehashed Red Flight prepared to take a little outing. Being on test work gave them plenty of freedom to choose their own jobs.
They slipped away without much notice being taken of the new ship. Everyone was busy with his own job and paid no attention to the big fighter sliding out on its tricycle landing gear with a Spitfire nosing right after it.
Stan settled back to have some fun withAllison. Out of the corner of his eyes he watched the vertical speed indicator and a wide grin spread over his face. The Hendee Hawk was going up at a terrific pace. Already the Spitfire was far behind. Stan knew Allison would fly the wings off the Spitfire to keep him from getting away. He laughed softly.
He kicked her over and into a tight bank and she zoomed around, boring away. He kicked her back and looped in a dizzy blur of speed. Allison shot in below him and Stan came around to knife past his pal. He glanced back and there was a happy, vacant grin on O'Malley's homely face, as he absorbed the drone of the 2,000-horsepower, two-row, radial motor.
Allison dipped his wings as Stan went boring past him. It was really a salute and it meant a lot, coming from Allison with his dislike of radial motors.
They roared out over the channel at 15,000 feet. As the French coast line began to show through a thin mist, Stan laid over and started to climb again. Very soon they were nipping at their oxygen, flying at 26,000 feet. They saw no planes at all and theexcursion seemed doomed to be no more than a spring frolic.
O'Malley growled into his intercommunication phone. "The Jerries must o' heard we were comin' out for a spin."
"There's a cloud or two down and to the east," Stan answered. "We'll drop down and pick up Allison, then go have a look."
"That's where the bushwhackin' spalpeens will be lurking," O'Malley agreed.
They knifed over on one wing, peeled off, and roared down. The gyro-horizon did a lot of strange maneuvers and the altimeter was unrolling like ticker tape off a Wall Street machine. They picked up Allison and Stan decided to give the Irishman a lesson. He set the air flaps, and before the startled O'Malley could save himself, he had lost a couple of inches of skin off both shins. The Hendee Hawk seemed to have decided to stop in mid-air. She was pointing her nose straight at the ground, but she had slowed to a steady 350 miles per hour.
"Mother o' pearl!" O'Malley shouted. "What a nice day for dive bombing. Show me how you do it."
"Just watch." Stan pulled the Hawk outof her dive and then sent her in again with O'Malley watching him closely.
Then Allison's voice cut in. "You fellows better cut out the grandstanding and have a look west."
Stan looked and saw that Allison was streaking away toward a formation of nine Junkers Ju 87's. The Stukas were bent upon business and were moving toward the English coast, undoubtedly bent upon intercepting a ship they had received a spotter's report upon.
"Me bye, you may now show Mrs. O'Malley's son a few things," O'Malley bellowed. Stan sent the Hawk sizzling away after the Stukas. The Jerries had now sighted the two fighters, but they were keeping on their course, which meant that up in the big clouds above lurked a fighter patrol of Messerschmitts. The Junkers were slow and low-powered, not being able to exceed 170 miles per hour. Stan zoomed up and passed Allison who was also going up with the cloud ambush in mind.
Suddenly the Stukas broke formation and scattered, each diving for cover and cutting loose their sticks of bombs. Stan bankedand 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 space 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 mass 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'sship. 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 reassuring hand on his shoulder. "No," he replied simply. "I promise you he won't die. Englandneeds 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 God," 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 achance 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 smiledbroadly. "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.