The Wing Commander seemed bent upon saving the Hendee Hawk for some special show. For two days no call came for Stan and O'Malley. They lounged about, with O'Malley getting as restless as a panther and twice as grouchy. They went over to see Allison and found him sitting up. He would be out in a very short time.
Stan took the opportunity to give O'Malley a course of lessons dealing with the fine points of the Hawk.
"She carries two sticks of bombs when she's out hunting. That's something new. They put those sticks on just to pep you up. The other day, when we were zipping through Messerschmitt bullets, I gave them a thought or two. If a cannon ball or a bullet lands just right, off goes the stick of bombs and out you go." Stan grinned at O'Malley as he spoke.
"Sure, an' O'Malley will fix that," the Irishman said. "We pick a nice spot and drop them firecrackers."
"I'm glad you suggested it. It would have been against regulations for me to say anything about it."
"Sure, we might find a Jerry to pop them down on, but no matter, they are no fit things to be kapin' tucked under your wings whilst you're sky scrappin'." O'Malley shook his head.
"We'll try them out. This is the best dive bomber that was ever built. You nose her straight down and pull the flaps. She settles herself to a 350 mile per hour pace and when you get your sights set you cut loose. It's a dead cinch to pot a target that way."
"Sure," O'Malley agreed. "Only we aren't bomber boys."
They left O'Malley's room and went to the mess. Stan read the pictorial while O'Malley took a nap. The blaring of the intersquadron speaker roused them. The Irishman's feet hit the floor and he was awake at once.
"That's us," he mumbled.
"It's everybody else, but it's not us," Stan growled.
It seemed the Group Captain and his men gathered around the map in headquarters had forgotten all about the Hendee Hawk.
"That's the trouble in being a one-ship flight," O'Malley muttered. "If we had three Spitfires we'd be up there now."
An orderly entered and ran across to Stan. "Wing Commander Farrell's instructions for Lieutenant Wilson," he said as he handed Stan the paper.
Stan unfolded the paper and, with O'Malley reading the order out loud over his shoulder, he scanned the paper. They were to join a flight of Hurricanes and Spitfires setting out to contact enemy planes over the channel. Orders would be broadcast later, but the action was in connection with a naval attack. Their radio call would be Red Flight.
"Sure, an' we're still Red Flight," O'Malley said as he whirled and made off.
They walked back to O'Malley's room. Over a battered desk hung a piece of the tail of a Dornier showing a swastika and onthe desk lay a heavy German pistol, a grim memento of some duel with death he had won.
Surveying these enemy souvenirs, Stan grinned broadly and remarked, "If this war keeps up you'll be able to furnish a museum."
O'Malley shook his head disconsolately. "'Tis little enough," he complained. "This air fighting is bad for picking up such things. Every time I down a plane it's me bad luck that it smashes to bits and leaves nothing behind for me to remember it by."
"The ones that smash up feel worse about it than you do," Stan reminded him.
The Irishman turned serious for one of the few times since Stan had known him. "Faith, an' I think of them poor devils sometimes," he muttered. "'Tis hard for them with nothing to believe in. Fighting because they're told to fight. Crashing to flaming death because one man orders them to. 'Tis a bad state of affairs this world is in, so help me."
Stan nodded soberly. "The best we can do is to finish the whole show up as fast aswe can. And we'd better be getting back to the mess to be ready for a call."
O'Malley yawned and nodded agreement. "Though it's not likely they'll be sending us up again soon," he muttered pessimistically. "Always coddlin' us, that's what they do."
A few minutes later they were waddling out on the field. The blast of steel propellers sawed through the air as a Spitfire flight warmed up on the cab rank. Cantilever wings vibrated and hummed and figures in coveralls swarmed over and around the planes. Flight sergeants tested throttle knobs and officers dashed about.
"Looks like an extra big show," Stan said as they moved toward the newly daubed hawk. She looked freakish in her many-colored coat of sky paint. Her motor was idling smoothly.
"Sure, an' she's a dainty colleen," O'Malley purred as he waited for the sergeant to swing down.
"Remember this ship has to come back, so don't go wild," Stan warned. "And let me have her when we get ready to unload those sticks of T.N.T. If we crack her upand no record comes in, we won't get any more Hawks. The brass hats over here aren't sold on her yet."
O'Malley was dreamily grinning at the big fighter and didn't seem to hear him.
The Sergeant swung down and flipped a salute. "That motor is a bit of all right, sir," he said.
"She is that," Stan agreed.
They climbed in and got set in their cramped quarters. Seated very close together, with Stan a bit lower than O'Malley, who was at the controls, they pulled up their belts. O'Malley jerked his hatch cover shut and Stan closed his. The Irishman revved up, pinched one brake and gave the throttle a kick. The Hawk spun around with a roar. Stan noted the look of surprise on the Irishman's face. He hoped O'Malley didn't ground loop her before they got off.
O'Malley didn't. He was a born flier and a lover of engines. Before they got the starter's signal, he had the feel of the big Double-Wasp motor. He took her off with a rush and a zoom, falling easily into place between a flight of Spitfires and Hurricanes. Later a spread of Defiants joined them andstill later they overtook a squadron of Hampdens moving steadily out toward the channel. The bombers were loaded heavily and making no attempt to climb up.
"Don't ye forget we're pickin' a target and unloading the bombs." O'Malley was speaking through the "intercom" telephone.
"Wait until we spot a good target. I want to see what we can do with our sticks of bombs," Stan answered.
O'Malley began to hum a snatch of an Irish melody. He wasn't in the least disturbed. For that matter the whole flight was slipping along as smoothly as though on parade.
Then everything changed in a flash. "Naval battle! Naval battle!" O'Malley was bellowing into his mike.
The Hampdens were moving into formation for action against something below and the fighters were peeling off and going down to see them through. Up ahead shells were bursting in the sky and the thunder of big guns rolled up to them.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
The big fellows weren't tossing their shellsaloft. They were lobbing them at targets below. Stan shouted to O'Malley:
"Follow the Hampdens down so we can unload!"
"Sure, an' the quicker the better," O'Malley bellowed back. He depressed the nose of the Hawk and they went screaming down the chute. In a moment they had a good look at the sea below.
Four cruisers and a string of light destroyers were fighting a running battle with several pocket battleships and a fleet of coastal torpedo boats. An aircraft carrier wallowed alongside the formation of cruisers.
The scene below was a wild mixture of foaming water, smoke and flame from belching guns, and the roll of thunder as the turret batteries fired. The British Navy dogs were trying to get at the pocket battleships. The carrier held her course well west of the line of destroyers. The cruisers were pouring broadsides across the lashed water, and the destroyers, like bull pups, were pounding away, holding station splendidly, trying to reach the enemy. One got a hit squarely on its foredeck and rolled half around, wallowingin the trough. A sheet of flame spurted from a gun turret and rolled over the deck. For a moment the little ship staggered on, then exploded.
"The poor fellers," grated O'Malley.
Stan said nothing but he felt cold all over. He looked down at the carrier and saw torpedo bombers sliding off her deck like little swallows. O'Malley's voice chopped off his thoughts.
"'Tis a pocket battle wagon we get, no less," he almost crooned.
"Thick weather down there," Stan warned.
The muck of anti-aircraft fire made the stratum above the sea look as though it was on fire. The smoke was stabbed by blossoming shells hurling ragged pieces of iron in every direction. There was a swarm of Messerschmitts and Stukas and Heinkels all messed up with a crisscross of darting, thrusting Hurricanes, Spitfires and Defiants. The Hampdens were not having any better luck in getting through to their objectives than were the Stukas.
"We better set the firecrackers off or we'll miss one foin scrap," O'Malley called.
He nosed the Hawk down and sent her into a screaming dive. The little boats that Stan knew were pocket battleships began to grow in size, and the muck swarmed up closer to them with Hades breaking loose around their ears. None of the Messerschmitts tried to stop them. The Jerries thought the odd plane was just another crazy fighter who didn't know where he was going. The cockpit shuddered and the instruments on the board seemed to dance.
"Set your wing flaps!" Stan screamed. "Set your flaps!"
The Hawk began to steady as O'Malley remembered the flaps and applied them. Holding a plumb line at 350 miles per hour, she dropped upon the battle wagon below. Stan could see the deck of the ship coming up toward them as though a mighty hand were lifting it.
The wind screamed above the din of exploding shells. The gunners on board the battleship were taking notice and frantically trying to swing guns to bear upon the plummeting Hawk. Stan caught his breath and held it. This was exhilarating, almost glorious. He didn't think about the dangerof meeting a bursting shell, all he thought about was the drop and the mighty surge of power. The plane swayed and shuddered as big shells burst close to her.
Then the field of blossoming shells was above them and the deck below was big. They could see men scrambling about, their faces white blobs as they looked upward.
"Left a point," Stan shouted as he set the bomb sight. "Now right a bit ... left more."
"Ready!" O'Malley bellowed.
"Ready! Hold her steady!"
O'Malley released the bomb selection levers, both of them.
All Stan had to do was to press the button and the sticks of bombs were off. He pressed it hard and almost instantly the ship zoomed upward as though tossed into the sky by a mortar. As they wound upward with the Wasp engine roaring Stan looked back.
Where the deck of the battleship had been there was now a great burst of smoke and flame.
"That card will make 'em watch their course, me bye!" O'Malley crowed.
Stan could not tell whether they had put the pocket battleship out or not. She shifted her course and moved more slowly, but she kept going. Now the Messerschmitts decided the crazy ship was a bomber and not a fighter. They swarmed upon her, which was exactly what the wild Irishman wanted.
Stan went to work with his guns, but he kept track of the doings of his crazy pilot. O'Malley seemed to have gone stark mad. He plunged up into the path of the oncoming fighters and his banks of Brownings opened up. Lead spattered all over the Hawk and a lot of it came through. But two Messerschmitt One-Tens went down before the flock discovered that this new ship had more wicked fire power than a Spitfire. They zoomed and dived and circled like angry hornets.
"They need a bit of educatin'," O'Malley shouted. "An if they'll be swarmin' around I'll give it to them."
Stan didn't answer because at that moment his hatch cover splintered into a million tiny cracks and a maze of ragged holes, the line of bullets moving across not six inches above his head.
O'Malley decided the only thing was to select a Messerschmitt and run him down. He picked one and roared after it. The ME, confident that he had superior speed, darted away. But he soon discovered this strange ship had plenty more engine than his One-Ten. He banked and shot down. O'Malley dived and was on his tail, slicing away great chunks of the Jerry's ship.
When they came up they were well inside the enemy lines and no Royal Air Force ships were in sight, though the air was full of assorted Jerries.
"Get back on our side of the fence!" Stan shouted.
"Sure, an' it's nicer over here," O'Malley called back.
But a minute later he took Stan's advice. A Messerschmitt came up from below and a Heinkel dived from above with another ME closing in from the rear. The three fighters raked the Hawk as they closed upon her. Her Double-Wasp coughed and sputtered. She kept on running but her zip was gone and oil and air came sucking back inside her. Stan knew it was the sea for him again.
"Mind getting wet?" O'Malley called back cheerfully as he sent the Hawk down and away from the enemy.
"No, you wild man, but I do mind losing this ship," Stan shouted back.
"She isn't lost," O'Malley called back.
They were sliding down and away from the big fight. Even with a crippled motor the Hawk could show her tail to a Messerschmitt. They saw the Spitfires and the Hurricanes now, battling the Jerries up above, keeping them from opening a path for the Stukas. The cruisers and the destroyers were throwing shells into the sky recklessly and at the same time pounding to pieces two floundering Nazi battleships.
"Sure, an' it's a fine show," O'Malley crowed.
He had hardly finished speaking, when the Wasp backfired savagely, shook herself, then died completely.
"Now, you wild Irishman, slide her home if you can," Stan rasped.
"An' what do ye suppose they have carriers for?" O'Malley called back.
"This bus won't set down on a carrier!" Stan snapped.
He looked down and saw the carrier, her deck looking about the size of a banana peeling. Stan figured the chances of landing on the carrier were about one thousand to one, but he realized that would seem like attractive odds to O'Malley.
The Irishman was circling down upon the carrier in a very businesslike manner. So much so that the crew was running about like wild men. The superstructure panel flashed signals neither Stan nor O'Malley could understand. The little men on the deck fired warning rockets and a couple of flares, and then potted at the Hawk with a pom-pom which splattered the side of the ship.
"A nice welcome to be givin' the King's two best recruits," O'Malley growled.
As Stan looked down, the things that could happen to them ticked through his mind. They could run over the side and be chewed up by the screws, coming up in the wake of the carrier as foam and grease spots. They could top the bow and be smashed under by the monster plowing ahead at thirty knots. They could slap up against the superstructure island and burn there like a huge flare. Stan upped thechances. They were one in a million, not one in a thousand.
He didn't kick or order O'Malley to bail out, which was the sane thing to do. He didn't even think about his own chute.
The sailors were signaling again and there didn't seem to be any welcome letters in the signals. But the deck was clear as O'Malley swung the Hawk into line and set her for the crazy attempt. The panel flipped black and white warnings frantically as they zipped in.
"The wing flaps!" Stan shouted as the idea struck him.
"Sure, an' I'm dumb," O'Malley came back.
He set the flaps and they nosed over dangerously, but they slowed a lot. The carrier was rolling about, trying to take her proper position, which she had deserted when she started fooling with this strange Royal Air Force plane. She was now paying no attention to the Hawk at all.
Shells from the pocket battleship sent up huge columns of water alongside. Stan squinted through a bullet hole in his hatch cover. The forward plane lift was down,leaving a neat but restricted patch of deck.
Four long, pen-shaped bombs whistled down from the sky. The sea swallowed them and a second later belched an eruption of water.
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 officerwho 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 Nazi 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. Theywent 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 ashore 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.
O'Malley and Stan climbed out of a Bentley roadster and hurried across the street to the squadron gateway. The sentry let them pass 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 appearingto 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 theO.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 Nazi agents." Stan knew he was supposed to answer.
"I was tried and acquitted."
"That is true, but no American firm would hire you and the Army refused to allow you to enlist. Is that correct?"
"Yes, sir."
The Wing Commander cleared his throat. "Have you anything to say for yourself that would clear up this angle?"
"I was the victim of Nazi agents who stole the plans. That was proved at the trial. Later, they cleverly planted rumors and suspicions about me so that no one wanted to have anything to do with me. In plain American, I was framed." Stan spoke slowly, putting all the conviction he could into his words. He didn't expect the O.C. to believe him any more than the American firms or the army officers to whom he had applied for entry into the service.
"You have done a splendid job here, for which the British people and His Majesty's Government thank you; but, in these times of great danger, we cannot take chances with anyone whose past record is in doubt. I am sorry, Wilson, but I have orders to release you and send you back to the United States."
Stan sat looking at the Wing Commander. Suddenly anger boiled up inside him, a savage, cold anger.
"If you can show no more appreciationthan this, I do not care to stay. My record with the Royal Air Force should be proof that the charges against me were phony."
The O.C. reddened. He looked at Garret. Scowling blackly, he said, "I took that attitude, personally, but my superior officers have ordered your release."
"Before you release him I suggest that you consider another angle," Garret said. "I have just learned that, though he and an Irish recruit returned safely, the new plane did not return. The fighters of all groups have been questioned and they did not see the Hawk in action against the enemy at all. I think the plane was delivered to Nazi agents on the coast." Garret's voice was little better than a snarl when he finished.
Stan's gaze locked with that of the lieutenant. "The Hendee Hawk will be delivered here at the field in a few days. Lieutenant O'Malley set her down on a carrier in the channel after she was put out of action."
Garret laughed harshly. "That is a fine story, Wilson, but one that only a fool would believe."
"It is an impossible story," the O.C. agreed.
"He should be locked up," Garret insisted.
"I hardly think that will be necessary," a voice from the doorway said. The men turned and saw Allison standing just inside the room, supported by the strong arm of O'Malley.
"Sure, an' did I hear someone say I didn't set that Hawk down on a carrier?" O'Malley growled. His glare traveled from Farrell to Garrett and fastened there. Garret shrank back in his chair.
The pair moved into the room. Allison's face was white and thin but his eyes were snapping. The Wing Commander frowned.
"This is an intrusion. Remember, gentlemen, you are junior officers." Farrell fixed O'Malley with a cold glare as the Irishman pulled forward a chair for Allison.
"We felt it of great importance, sir," Allison said as he sank into the chair. "I am sure you will agree when I explain." He took a thick envelope from his pocket and laid it on the desk before the O.C. "These papers will be of interest to you, sir, I am sure."
The Wing Commander opened the envelope and spread a sheaf of papers on hisdesk. He bent over them, reading deliberately.
After laying aside the last report he looked up. His eyes were on Garret.
"It seems, Lieutenant, that you have made a jackass out of yourself and out of me. These reports are from the American Federal Bureau of Investigation, and from the British Intelligence. Both departments give Lieutenant Wilson a clean slate. Both report he was, as he says, 'framed.'" He turned to Stan.
"With these reports you could join the United States Army Air Corps any time you wished. After the treatment you have received here I feel it my duty to offer you a release so that you may do so."
The sudden turn of affairs had Stan groggy; however, the realization that he was at last freed of the smear that had blackened his name started a surge of warmth and elation through him. He turned to Allison.
"You knew it all the time," he accused.
Allison grinned. "Yes, that report came in with your credentials. I took it out of the file to have a bit of sport with you. It was dumb of me to forget to replace it. But youwere so stubborn over the whole matter I didn't feel you needed to know."
Garret got to his feet. His face was white and his voice was not very steady. "I merely did my duty as I saw it, sir. I had no way of knowing what was in the report Allison has laid before you. I ask leave to retire."
"Stay where you are. I want to talk to you," the O.C. snapped.
Stan got to his feet. Milton was thumping him on the back and O'Malley was grinning like a wolf. Milton rumbled in his deep voice:
"I said it all smelled fishy to me." He turned to the O.C. "Wilson is the best test pilot that ever stepped into a plane."
"Allison's comin' back in a couple days an' Red Flight goes out in Spitfires," O'Malley broke in eagerly. "Sure, an' there's no war on over in America. 'Tis right here you'll be staying or I'll give you a fine dusting when we get outside."
"I'm staying until the war is over. In a way I figure it's our fight, too, sir. If you don't mind, I'll stay in Red Flight."
"Mind! I'll recommend you for top honors." The O.C. was beaming.
An orderly stepped into the room and laid a report on Farrell's desk. He glanced at it, then picked it up. A minute later he pounded the desk with his fist and began to laugh.
"This report says His Majesty's carrier,Staunch, has on board a new type of dive bomber which put a pocket battleship out of action and later landed upon the deck of the carrier. The commander considers the plane so valuable he is putting in to deliver it."
"Until we can get three of those Hawks for you boys, you will fly Spitfires as Red Flight," the O.C. said. "After that you will likely win the war without any help."
"Sure, an' we'll do just that, sor, as a special favor to you," O'Malley answered.
The O.C. looked at him and frowned. He wasn't sure whether O'Malley was spoofing or meant it. Allison and Stan were sure O'Malley was in dead earnest.
"Thank you, sir," Stan said. "We'll run along now."
When they were outside the office, Allison said in his slow drawl:
"That ought to be the last of Garret."
"Sure, an' he'll be brewin' trouble if he stays around, you can bank on that," O'Malley said.
Stan had the same feeling. There was something about Garret he could not understand. He had a feeling there was more than just a grudge against him in Garret's acts. The lieutenant had certain connections that seemed to reach very high up into official circles. Stan planned to do some quiet checking, now that he didn't have to be so careful.
During the next three days Stan poked about asking a lot of questions. He was very careful not to arouse suspicion. He learned very little. Garret came in as a ferry pilot and later was given a chance in the air. He was a Canadian who had lived most of his life in the United States. Why he was not released from the Air Arm after Allison reported his action in deserting Red Flight was not clear. And no one seemed to know how he had managed to get himself placed in a responsible position close to the O.C.
One thing looked good to Stan. Garret had left the squadron and no one knew where he had been sent. He was out of the way, yetStan had a feeling he had not seen the last of him.
The day Allison returned to duty an order was posted creating a night defense group of fighters. It consisted of twelve Spitfires and Red Flight was included. O'Malley was so excited over the order that he walked away from a half pie, forgetting it entirely.
"Sure, an' this is me dish," he crowed.
"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 cargoesof 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 massive 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 cockeyed. 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 outblack 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 hisBrownings. 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 reversement, 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. Nobody 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.
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. Allisoncame 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. 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 MoonFlight 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, McCumber, 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 ofthree 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. McCumber 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 withO'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 assured 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 wehave 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 Nazi 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 shore 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 shipstogether 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 shore 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 astream 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 afterhim. 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.
The Jerry was a crack flier. The Heinkel came in with a roaring thrust, her Madsen slugs drilling away at the Spitfire. Stan heard the stingers zipping through his fuselage. A blue flame began playing up and down over a hole in his fuel tank.
"Well," Stan muttered sourly. "I'll have to put a stop to this, or else——"
He sent the Spitfire off to the right like a streak. The Heinkel zoomed past, building altitude for a death thrust. Stan cracked the throttle wide open and kicked in the emergency booster. The Merlin answered splendidly.
Glancing into his mirror he took in the setup, then faked a steep climb. Up he went, 500 feet, then sent the Spitfire into a screaming back-over roll, holding his ship upside down until he was behind the Heinkel and above it. Then he dropped the Spitfire as though she were crippled. This placed him under the Heinkel and he went up. The Jerry was now trying to make a run for it. Stan saw a spread of fuselage and a wing through his windscreen and he pressed the gun button. The Brownings spat fire and lead. The Jerry was trapped and knew it. He swayed and rocked and twisted in an attempt to get away. The bullets drilled out again, a four-second burst.
Fire and smoke rolled out of the port motor. The flames licked in around the stricken ship. A rancid whiff came to Stanand reminded him that his own fuel tank was on fire. It would be only a matter of seconds until he would be in a flaming coffin himself.
The Merlin was still hitting beautifully. Stan squirmed about and jerked loose a fire extinguisher. He turned the handle and pumped frantically. The liquid spray feathered out and blanketed the fire. Stan sucked in a deep breath and looked down at the plummeting Heinkel. The Jerry was trying to bail out, but he wasn't making much headway. Stan nosed down and watched the struggle.
He was sorry for the pilot but it was not pity that made him circle lower and check the field toward which the Heinkel was spinning. Stan wanted to ask that Jerry a few questions, and the Jerry had to be rescued from his firetrap or he couldn't do it.
The Heinkel turned over, flattened and eased up, then plunged into a tangle of bushes beside a road. Stan gauged the rolling field which spread beside the road. He could have set a Hurricane down on that field easily, but a Spitfire was different. Her landing gear was high and narrow. He side-slippedand leveled off, then skimmed over the grass and bumped down, jerking and swaying. The Spitfire rolled up to within a safe distance from the burning plane and Stan leaped out.
The Jerry had almost made it out of the plane. He was draped over the side with his parachute harness caught in the smashed hatch cover. Risking an explosion which would have finished them both, Stan jerked the pilot loose and dragged him a safe distance from his ship. They were less than fifty feet from the Heinkel, when her tank cut loose and billows of smoke and flame rolled up, licking at the grass and brush.
The Heinkel's pilot sat on the grass. He watched his ship vanish and his face worked. If it had not been for the Royal Air Force pilot bending over him, he would at that moment be frying to a crisp. He shuddered and licked his lips.
Stan gave his attention to the fellow's wounds. He was badly hit in the shoulder and bleeding freely. His face was white.
"Who tipped you off that I'd be flying solo along this route?" Stan demanded.
The Nazi lifted blue eyes to Stan and shook his head grimly.
"Better talk, son, you are bleeding plenty."
"That would be revealing a military secret," the Nazi said in clipped English.
"I suppose you think I followed regulations and war rules in ducking down into this pile of rocks to drag you out of your crate?" Stan's eyes were cold and hard.
The Jerry coughed and smiled weakly. "I am indebted to you," he said slowly.
"If I don't get you to a doctor, you'll be as bad off as if you were still in that bonfire," Stan snapped. "Talk and I'll see what I can do. And hand me that Luger." He reached down and jerked the officer's gun from him. The Nazi had been too weak to make fast use of it.
"I suppose you are right." The officer coughed again and his hand slipped to his breast where his tunic was fast becoming soaked with blood.
"I might as well talk." Fear was showing in his eyes.
"Good. Who tipped you off?"
"A man who has quite an inside positionwith you. His name is—" The Jerry paused and coughed.
"Yes?" Stan bent and steadied him. He was afraid the Nazi would pass out before he spoke again.
"Arch Garret," the Nazi said, then went limp in Stan's arms.
Stan stared down in the gray face for a moment. His lips were drawn into a tight line and his eyes were blazing. Then he remembered his promise to the unconscious Nazi. Picking the man up he carried him to the stone fence which separated the field from the road.
An old car had halted and a man and a woman sat staring at the smoking Nazi plane and the trim Spitfire. When Stan appeared they started to get the old car into action.
"Wait!" Stan shouted.
The man recognized Stan's uniform and a broad smile came to his lips. He halted the car and waited while Stan carried the wounded man to the roadside.
"Can you get him to a doctor at once?" he asked.
"Verra easy," the man said.
"Take him to a doctor, then notify yourauthorities that you have a Nazi prisoner. You should get a handsome reward for such a prize. He is a pilot and pilots are valuable."
The man and the woman began to talk at the same time. Stan loaded the wounded officer into the back seat and waved to the pair. Turning, he headed for his Spitfire.
Stan plugged the hole in his gas tank and warmed the Spitfire a bit, then rolled her to the far end of the field. There was some question as to whether he could make off the rough field, but he was in a terrible hurry and did not care to wait for help.
With a last careful survey of the grass runway he was off. The Spitfire rocked and dipped her wings and swayed drunkenly, but she lifted and cleared the stone fence. Now that he was in the air Stan had to decide what he should do about Arch Garret. As he circled for altitude, he tried to figure it out.
He had a hunch Garret was just a cog in a bad machine. He was the logical man to shove into the middle of things and the British were eagerly picking up overseas pilots. The Royal Air Force was well filled withAustralians, New Zealanders, Canadians, and others from the empire at large. Garret was a Canadian citizen, even though he had spent his last few years in the United States. Now it was very clear why Moon Flight had missed the bombers until they had done their work of destruction.
The question was whether he should fly back and report—or whether he should call Wing Commander Farrell and have secret agents put on Garret's trail. Garret would undoubtedly have an airtight alibi. And he certainly had backing that went high up. Stan might just make a fool out of himself. After all, the whole thing sounded like a tall story.
He finally decided to go on to the navy base and then send for Allison and O'Malley at once. They would believe him and help him. He would have a good crew of mechanics at the field to slap the Hawks together quickly and might be able to get them off in one day. Then there was one other thing that tipped the balance in favor of going on. This was pretty much a personal matter between himself and Arch Garret. This was the second time Garret had tried to wipe him out.
Heading north he drove along and did not see any more Heinkels. He was hailed by a scouting squadron from the fleet arm.
"Where to, Spitfire?" called a very English voice over the radio.
"Navy base. Shetlands," Stan called back.
"Good luck and cheerio, Yank," came back the English voice.
Stan grinned broadly. His western accent sure marked him well. He bored ahead, his eyes seeing far into the distance, his mind working upon the crooked plotting of Arch Garret.
He spotted the naval base and circled around to give the boys at the batteries a chance to see who he was, then set down and turned the Spitfire over to a ground crew. Taking his file of papers he headed for the commander's quarters.
The commander was an affable man, ruddy-faced and square-jawed. He had heard about Stan and O'Malley's attack upon the pocket battleship.
"I was so inquisitive about those ships I had them unloaded and uncovered. Theyare beauties, sir. But I can't see what you'll want with so much motor."
"I'll show you," Stan promised. "Now I want to make a call back to London and then I want a squad of your best mechanics. I have to get these Hawks into action at once."
"You will get all the help you can use," the commander promised.
Stan got Wing Commander Farrell on the wire and talked to him. He did not report the brush with the Heinkel, though he would have to mention it in his written report. And he did not mention Arch Garret. When he asked that Allison and O'Malley be sent up at once, the O.C. hesitated.
"We have been having poor luck keeping the bombers out," he said. "I'll have to replace you three and add six more Spitfires, if I can get them."
"I need them at once. The sooner you get them up here, the sooner we'll be back to help you."
"I have an old Defiant they can both pile into," the O.C. finally said. "I'll get them off tomorrow before daylight."
Stan waited a few minutes, then put in acall for Allison. Presently the Britisher's drawl came in over the wire clearly:
"What's the matter, Yank, grounded in some cow pasture?"
"I landed in one but didn't like it," Stan said with a laugh. "I'm calling from the navy base."
"What's up?"
"Just this. I'm sending for you fellows and you will get orders to leave just before daylight. Look out for clouds. Fly that old Defiant low and watch for Heinkels. And tonight, if there's a raid, just you duck in the opposite direction from the way the Squadron Leader orders. I'll spin you a yarn when you get up here. Keep mum but pass the word to the boys to follow you if there's a raid."
"Well, really, old man, you know O'Malley and I can keep still and we can get orders mixed up badly."
"See you tomorrow." Stan hung up.
That night Stan slept soundly. He was still snoring away when the bugler outside his window blew first call. The moment his eyes opened he tossed aside the blankets andjumped out of bed. He wolfed his breakfast and was out on the field and headed for the hangar where the three Hawks were taking flying shape.
Allison and O'Malley came in before nine o'clock. Allison was flying the ship. He smiled thinly at Stan as he climbed out.
"I brought her up here. When you mentioned Heinkels, O'Malley was for hunting in the clouds a bit."
"I hated to waste a good trip," O'Malley complained.
"The boys at the factory sent the Hawks out almost ready to fly. We'll be in London tonight," Stan said.
O'Malley's eyes were on the three Hawks which had been rolled out into the sunshine in front of the hangar.
"'Twill be swell flyin' a ship that hasn't been all daubed up and smeared with messy paint," he said.
"We'll fly them in without camouflage," Stan agreed.
Five minutes later O'Malley and Allison were helping with the Hawks. O'Malley was burning up to be off, but the fighters had tobe carefully checked. As they worked Allison told Stan how they had been chased by three Messerschmitts.
"If you hadn't warned us, and if we hadn't decided to change our time of departure, we might have had plenty of trouble," Allison said.
Stan came around from behind one of the Hawks. "I might as well tell you the whole yarn while the boys are tuning up the motors," he said.
They sat on a bench in the sun while Stan told what had happened to him on his trip over. When he came to the part about making the Jerry talk, and name Garret, O'Malley leaped to his feet.
"Splinter me rudder!" he shouted. "I'm fer kitin' back this minnit. Wait till I get me hands on that spalpeen!"
"No use to go off half-cocked," Stan warned. "We need to catch Garret red-handed. I figure we'll get a few real spies along with him. But we won't be on schedule. Garret has a way of finding out what's going on in the O.C.'s office. He will tip off the Nazis and they'll be waiting to gang up on us."