"Sure, an' that's just what we want," O'Malley broke in. "They gang up an' we spatter the smithereens out of them."
Stan shook his head, but he had to laugh, O'Malley looked so wild. "We'll be doing much better service trapping Garret and his rats."
"Stan is right, old fellow," Allison said grimly.
"I want to know what you fellows think of our handling this just among ourselves? We can keep Garret from sidetracking Moon Flight when a raid comes over. And we can round up the snakes he's working with at the same time."
"How about tonight? Suppose the Jerries hit tonight?" Allison asked.
"We'll get off early and be there for any raid. I'll ask the naval commander not to report us out until midnight. That will throw Garret off," Stan said.
"How soon can we hit the trail?" O'Malley asked.
"Two or three hours will have them in shape. You come with me and I'll show you all you need to know about a Hawk to make her do things," he said to Allison.
Stan and Allison headed toward the nearest ship. O'Malley stretched himself out in the sun and closed his eyes. He figured he already knew more about a Hawk than the Hendee aeronautical officials.
Three Hendee Hawks nosed out across the navy field and roared south. Stan's ship formed the spearhead of a sharp V. O'Malley refused to keep still. He sang and talked about everything he could think of, which was a wide range of subjects. Allison held the right hand slot and said nothing. Stan held the big motor up ahead of him at a pace that would have ripped the pistons out of any other ship. He felt at home with the engine up in front of him instead of at his back.
The take-off had been later than he had planned, but with the terrific cruising speed the Hawks could maintain, they would reach London early. Dusk filled the earth below and the stars came out. Stan couldn't shake off the feeling that there was need for speed. He could not drive that uneasiness out of hismind or bury it under other thoughts. He was sure Allison was as worried as he. O'Malley didn't appear to have a worry at all.
Hours later they sighted London. They sighted it because of the thick muck of flaming shells and the searchlights knifing back and forth through the mass of bursting steel. The Jerries were at it again and seemed to have slipped inside the balloons and the ring of Ack-Ack guns.
"Looks like more of Garret's dirty work," Allison snarled.
"That sneakin' spalpeen! Just let me cross his trail this night. He'll find out what sixteen Brownings can do," O'Malley rumbled.
"Don't shoot him down," Stan ordered grimly. "And keep your mouth shut about him."
The three Hendee Hawks came roaring down upon the nice party the Jerries had planned. The Spitfires were up, but they were off their contact. Though they were now roaring back to give battle, they were too late to save the city from a terrible beating, unless the Hawks succeeded in breakingup the formation. Stan imagined he could hear the Stuka leader's voice crackling in over the radio.
"Left wheel, dive bombers 6, 8, 10 attack positions 27, 39, 49."
He knew such a command had been given because a mass of Stukas, marked clearly by the searchlights and the fires below, were swooping down. They were very low over the city, far below the Hawks.
"Peel off and go into action. Break the spearhead," Stan snapped into his flap mike.
The Hawks peeled off and went down, O'Malley first, then Stan, and then Allison. The drone of their motors was terrific and their pilots were slapped back against their shock pads and held there. Down Stan went, straight for the leading Stuka. The bombers had not started peeling off so there was still time.
The leading Stuka never knew where the lightning came from. With a swastika backed by a red field in his windscreen, Stan pressed the gun button and sliced through the middle of the killer, breaking it into almost two separate parts.
The Hawk faded to the right and anotherStuka rolled past him, unaware that death was dropping from the sky. Stan put her up 200 feet; and then, his motor screaming, he laid over and was upon the Stuka, his guns belching death. The bomber staggered and winged over, spilling men out of her hull like sacks out of a van.
Savagely, Stan rolled and twisted seeking another target. O'Malley had gotten into the formation first and he was taking it apart with a display of aerial gymnastics that made the Jerries forget anything but escape. Allison was cutting away far to the left and the carefully planned blitz was already a fearful rout, with death as the lot of most of the killers. Scattered, they zoomed and dived, seeking only to escape. As they went twisting out of their formations, low over the city, the cables of death claimed many victims.
Then the Spitfires of Moon Flight came roaring in from a wild chase to the east and the rout was complete. Within a few minutes the astonished gunners and the men at the lights below began to realize that somehow what had seemed certain to be a terribleluftwaffehad been turned into a victory.The Ack-Ack boys laid off. Then Moon Flight plus Red Flight bored upward to see how many Messerschmitts Herr Goering had sent along as fighter planes. The ME's came cascading downward, eager to see their charges safely home. There was a flight of forty and another of fifty. They were met by three streaking silver planes that carried no dull paint and looked like commercial craft out for a spree. The three had out-climbed the Spitfires.
Stan swerved to the right to give O'Malley room. He had outflown the Irishman and was grinning. O'Malley still had a few things to learn about a Hawk before he could get everything out of his big engine. He slashed into the formation with guns raking the descending ships. Past them he flashed and bored on into the darkness. When he got back into position again, the Spitfires had arrived and the Messerschmitts were scattering and ducking into the night.
"Calling the Hawks. Calling the Hawks," Stan called.
"Sure, an' it was a poor show," O'Malley's voice came in. "This colleen has theneed of two big eyes to see where the spalpeens go when they run away."
"This will be nice news for the Nazis to broadcast," Allison called.
"Moon Flight, come in. Moon Flight, come in. Enemy dispersed." The call was from the field below.
Then Garret's voice broke in. "Squadron Leader of Moon Flight reporting. Enemy dispersed with many casualties. Two of our fighters left formation."
"Bah," Stan heard O'Malley growl.
They went down with the Spitfires and rolled into the floodlights. The O.C. was there and very much excited. Before Stan could reach the door of the briefing room Farrell had him.
"We watched the show, what we could see of it. Those Hawks were great. But how did you come to disregard my orders as to the hour of your leaving the naval base?"
Stan smiled. "Don't you think it lucky we did, sir?"
"It was more than lucky. Many lives would have been lost and much damage done. I'm afraid we would have come in for some stiff criticism." He shook his head. "Garretgets off slow, but this is the second time he has cleaned up."
The O.C. hurried away, still shaking his head. Stan barged into the room and reported as a part of Moon Flight. The briefing officer hesitated about putting down the three Hawks.
"We have no planes of that type or name," he complained.
"Step yerself out to the field an' have a look," O'Malley suggested.
Stan was watching Garret narrowly. The Squadron Leader was scowling bleakly as he moved up to the desk. He seemed in a great hurry. Stan kicked O'Malley on the shin and left without filling out a report. Allison stayed to make the regulation report in detail and to answer questions fired at him about the new ship. O'Malley failed to take Stan's hint and stayed to have his say about the Hawks.
Stan hurried to his quarters and got out of his flying togs. He wasn't officially on duty and he had a few things he wanted to do. He headed along the hallway, keeping out of sight. Garret came in and he was almost running. He charged into his room andStan heard him changing clothes. Suddenly there was no sound at all from the room and Stan slipped to the door. Garret was supposed to be on duty, ready to go up again in case another raid came over. He listened carefully, then tried the knob. The door was open and he looked into the room.
What Stan saw made him shove inside at once. Garret had vanished, but in his haste he had left a trail. One window was open. Stan saw clothes tossed about showing the haste with which he had changed. He leaped to the window and slipped out, letting himself to the ground.
As he pushed aside a thick bush near the wall he saw the street dimly. There was no one on it wearing a Royal Air Force uniform. The only person on the dark street was a man in civilian clothes. Stan stared hard for a moment, then sucked in his breath and started after the man, who was sauntering swiftly into the darkness.
At the first shaded light Stan realized that the man he was trailing was Garret, and that the officer was in a big hurry. He strode along, pausing now and then to peer back and to listen. Stan used the tactics he hadlearned in Colorado while hunting mule deer. He moved when Garret moved and stopped when Garret stopped. Sliding along noiselessly he shifted from one patch of black shadow to another.
Stan did not remember how many blocks they walked, but he knew where he was in a general way. When Garret ducked down a flight of narrow steps, Stan moved up and listened. The opening below was black dark. He heard a door open but saw no light. Then he heard a guttural voice challenging Garret. After that the door closed and there were no other sounds.
Stan listened for a full minute. As he stood there unmoving, a part of the black shadow along the wall, he considered the situation. He had left his gun in his room. He was unarmed and those below would have guns. A burning desire glowed within him, a desire to have a look at the men Garret was meeting. Carefully he felt his way down the stairs and located the door.
The knob turned soundlessly under pressure but the door was locked. Moving back up the stairs, Stan stood looking at the old house which rose above the basement whereGarret had entered. The house was one of a row that had been hit by several demolition bombs. Most of the upper and the first story had been wrecked and the debris had not yet been cleared away. That was strange, because most of the other houses in the row had been damaged, too, but had been repaired.
Stan moved up the front steps, picking his way through a litter of brick and broken timbers. He saw a doorway ahead, with a door sagging open upon smashed hinges. Moving slowly and carefully Stan entered the room. A pile of plaster and brick lay on the floor with some broken furniture stacked in a corner. He was about to turn away, knowing that anyone below would hear footsteps above, when he saw a beam of light coming up through the floor.
Moving very slowly he crossed to the center of the room and bent down. A torn rug lay under a pile of bricks and the rug covered a broken board in the floor. Stan got down on his hands and knees. With great care he slid the rug back a little and more light shone through the hole in thefloor. Stan lay down and put his eye to the hole.
He could see very clearly everything in the basement below the wrecked house. There was a table directly under him and on it stood a portable short-wave radio sending and receiving set. A light, swung from the ceiling, flooded the table and the room.
A little hunchbacked fellow sat before the radio with earphones clamped over a shiny bald head. Three men sat across the table from the radio operator. One of them held Stan's attention. He was a short, thick-shouldered man with a bullethead that was covered with bristling, cropped hair. His eyes bulged and his mouth was a grim slash across his face. On the table at his elbow lay an English fire warden's hat. He was tapping the table with a thick finger and talking to Garret.
Garret sat beside the radioman, his face black and dour. It was plain the man had been giving Garret a tongue lashing. The other two men, seated beside the speaker, looked to Stan like London wharf rats.
"Herr Kohle, you are a blundering fool.Seventeen bombers were lost tonight, and because you failed to do your duty. TheKommandantwill hear of this," the bullet-headed man snarled.
"But, Herr Naggel, I followed instructions. The O.C. ordered the three to return in the morning and that order was sent to you by Mickle," Garret whined.
Stan made a note of the name Mickle. He had a hunch an orderly or a mechanic would be put on the spot once that name was traced to its owner.
"Now that the great blitzkrieg is set for an hour before daylight we cannot afford to take chances. You must do your part as planned." Herr Naggel spread a map on the table. "Here we have the concentrations of planes in Belgium, in France and in Norway. One thousand planes will come over London. There will be no city left tomorrow night. We will walk out and join the refugees pouring out of London, and then make contact with the parachute troops and the men from the gliders." He smiled wolfishly and licked his lips. "Those gliders are ready. You should see them. Three for each pilot plane and each will have its squadof men. At 20,000 feet the pilot plane will cut them loose and they will glide down upon England without a sound." He laughed softly.
"They say there will always be an England. Bah. England is done." He glared at Garret. "When the decoy bombers come over, you will lead your flight after them. Now that they have increased your squadron to twenty Spitfires, and the three American planes, they could do much damage. With early dawn light to fly by they might break up the whole plan."
"I will take them on a chase that will lead them so far away they won't get back. Send a big flight of Messerschmitts in after my squadron contacts the decoy bombers and have them start a dogfight. They never quit as long as there is anything left to fight. But you better send plenty of fighters."
"That is planned," Naggel said gruffly. "We cannot control the other flights that will go up, but yours is the key defense unit, the best they have, and it is most important in our plans."
Stan bent forward and strained his eyes to see the markings on the map. He wantedto know where those three concentrations of invasion planes were. He was able to spot them because they were marked upon the map with red circles. He was pressing his face against the boards to see better when one foot slipped a little. His right boot scraped across the floor.
Naggel did not stop talking and none of the others seemed to have heard. One of the men beside Naggel lighted a cigarette and leaned back. The radioman turned a dial and began talking softly into the portable mike. Stan could not hear what he said.
Slowly Stan got to his feet. He had the information he wanted. The thing to do was to beat the Jerries to the punch. The Royal Air Force would blast every one of those air fields and get the enemy on the ground. But he had to get to headquarters at once, everything depended upon speed. Only a few hours remained for the job.
Stan slipped through the wrecked door and paused for a moment. As he started to move down the steps a dark shadow loomed behind him. Before he could leap aside a hard object crashed down upon his head. Red and white lights danced before his eyesand stabbing pains racked him. Then he slid slowly forward and fell on his face.
When Stan opened his eyes he was sitting in a chair with his head hanging on one side. He shook his head and groaned, then focused his gaze upon the leering face of Herr Naggel.
"You would listen?" Herr Naggel said slowly.
Stan said nothing. He expected no mercy from the men who had taken him prisoner. His head was splitting and he felt weak and sick. A thought stabbed through the pain. They had heard him when his foot slipped. The man at the radio had called to someone near by. His sky fighter training had been poor preparation for ground sleuthing, Stan decided.
"We will be gone in a few minutes, and when we go, we will leave a little comrade with you." Herr Naggel motioned to a large grenade sitting on the table. As Stan fixed his gaze upon the grenade he realized that the radioman had gone, and had taken the portable set with him. Garret was gone, too, and he was alone with Naggel and his two rats.
Stan made another discovery. He was not bound. Likely the spies had not had rope or wire to make him fast, or they were sure their heavy Luger pistols would keep him in his place. Herr Naggel tapped the iron case of the grenade.
"The little one cannot be kept from exploding once the pin is removed. I will pull the pin and lock the door." He smiled and his mouth twisted at the corners.
Stan rose to his feet. He was not so bad off as he had thought. Dizzy, but not out by any means. He staggered and swayed, putting on as good a show of grogginess as he could. Herr Naggel seemed to relish watching him struggle to remain on his feet.
The thing that was pounding away inside Stan's head was the question: "How long was I out? How much time have I left?" He was not thinking about the almost certain death that stared him in the face. Naggel pulled out a big silver watch and looked at it.
"Two o'clock," he muttered. "We must wait fifteen minutes."
Stan almost showed his relief. There was still time! At that moment someone in the street above began shouting and screaming.Car brakes ground and there was a crashing noise. The blackout had claimed another victim of blind driving. Involuntarily the eyes of Herr Naggel and his men turned toward the door.
Lightning thought brought lightning action to Stan Wilson. It was no planned or prepared action, just wild, whirlwind action that was launched in the flicker of an eye-brow.
With one hand Stan clamped down upon Herr Naggel's Luger; he lunged in close to the squat Nazi. In the same movement he sent a right smashing across to the jaw of the spy. Herr Naggel let out a gusty grunt and rocked back on his heels, then went down in a limp pile on the floor.
Jerking the Luger free, Stan swept it upon the two rats. "Down on your faces," he gritted. "Flat on the floor or I'll shoot!"
Stark fear leaped into the eyes of the two men and they tumbled flat on the floor, sprawling there with faces covered. Then Stan saw Herr Naggel pulling himself slowly up to the table. A wild, crazy light flamed in the eyes of the spy. Stan made a lightning decision.
It made his flesh creep to think of shooting these men, but he dared not leave them in the cellar, and there was nothing to bind and gag them with. If he left them, they might get away and send word through the vanished radioman to the Jerry squadrons awaiting the zero hour.
He was saved from any solution of his own planning by Herr Naggel. The spy reached over, after getting to his feet, and grasped the grenade. Jerking out the pin he hurled the grenade at Stan's head. Stan ducked and the bomb struck the wall and bounded back. It spun around and came to rest a few feet from the door.
"We all die. The plan shall not fail!" Herr Naggel screamed hoarsely.
Stan leaped over the grenade and halted before the door. He jerked at it but it was locked. There was no time to get a key from the men. Behind him he heard Naggel's insane laugh. He brought the Luger down and blasted away at the lock. It shattered and the door opened.
Stan dived into the blackness outside, kicking the door shut as he went out. Hehad stumbled only one step when the whole wall of the basement burst outward and he was hurled up the steps and sent sprawling out into the street.
Stan swayed, sagged forward, then pitched on his face upon the hard street. A trickle of blood ran from the corners of his mouth. His eyes closed slowly, glassily. He lay still, a twisted, inert bundle of flesh.
A few minutes later car brakes screeched and a black roadster with hooded lights came to a halt. Two police officers jumped out. The dim lights were fixed upon the body of a man lying face down in the street. They lifted Stan to his feet and revived him after a few minutes of work.
Stan blinked his eyes and took one big gulp of air. He began talking in jerky sentences, repeating over and over.
"Get me to M Section of the Royal Air Force."
"That's as close as any first aid station," one of the officers said as he looked at Stan's uniform. "And I'm thinking he belongs there."
They helped Stan into the car and spedaway. Stan wiggled his arms and legs and decided he had been hit a hard jolt in the back which had knocked the breath out of him and shocked him badly, but otherwise he was all right.
Stan Wilson followed by O'Malley and Allison barged into Wing Commander Farrell's office. Before them marched Arch Garret with a Luger shoved into the small of his back. The O.C. leaped to his feet. He had been nodding in his chair and thought he must be dreaming. He quickly changed his mind.
Stan told his story in brief, clipped sentences. Farrell did not interrupt. When he had finished Garret broke in before the O.C. could say anything. He was not the defiant and arrogant lieutenant he had been. Fear showed in his eyes and his voice was shaking.
"I'll talk if it will save me from a firing squad," he begged.
"I may try but I do not think any power will save you," Farrell said sternly. "But you had better talk for the sake of your own conscience."
"They had me where they wanted me. My father was in Germany, in a concentration camp. I had to do what they ordered." Sweat was standing out in big drops on Garret's forehead. "I was straight and did my job until they got to me."
"That's why you got where you are and why you were not released after your first bad report. Your past record was fine." The O.C. dropped back into his chair. He jerked a phone from its cradle. He was looking intently at Garret as he clicked the receiver. "Go on, talk. I'll do what I can for you."
"The radioman is at 30 Elm Inn," Garret babbled. "He is to wait there for word from Herr Naggel. When Naggel gives the word, all will be clear for the attack."
"Naggel won't send any messages," Stan said grimly, remembering the terrible explosion which had blown him clear out into the street.
The O.C. had gotten his man and was barking into the phone. He kept on putting through calls and talking to Stan and Allison and O'Malley at the same time.
"Get a guard, O'Malley, and turn Garretover to him. Wilson, stand by. Allison, get back to the mess and see that all of the men stand by ready for action."
Stan watched the O.C. with admiration. He was a demon for getting things done in a speedy and effective manner. Stan handed his Luger to O'Malley. The Irishman prodded Garret with it.
"Get a move on, ye skulkin' hyena," O'Malley growled.
They moved out of the room with O'Malley telling the wilted Garret what he thought of him.
"We can get a crack at them before daylight, if headquarters will let us pull an immediate raid." The O.C. held the receiver jammed to his ear with one hand while he fished into a drawer with the other. He found a cigar and bit the end off, then clamped the cigar between his teeth. Speaking out of the side of his mouth, he went on.
"How did you come to bag Garret?"
"I found him in the mess, sir. He was sitting there waiting for the call to action he was sure was coming. He had warned all of the boys against loose flying. They had strict orders to stick close to him," Stan said.
"This is one raid they won't put over, thanks to you, Wilson."
"We can blast them at their bases," Stan said eagerly. "They'll be grounded and waiting, saving their gas and getting ragged nerves while they wait."
"Ragged nerves?" The O.C. had his man on the phone and began barking at him, arguing furiously. He waved his cigar and pounded the desk and bellowed. Five minutes later he clamped the receiver into place and swung around to face Stan. Wiping the sweat from his face, he said:
"That was the Air Ministry."
Stan grinned. "I take it you convinced them, sir."
"Convinced them? I routed them!" Farrell found a match and lighted his frayed cigar. Getting to his feet, he added. "We're off for those bases and this time I fly myself. I have been wanting to see how this show stacks up with the last one, and now I'm going to find out."
Stan followed him out into the night. After that things happened with lightning speed. Stan lost track of all the things they did and the places they went.
First of all, the radioman was caught with all of his equipment. The hunchback cracked when faced with the grim prospect of facing a firing squad within a half-hour. His code book revealed a complicated mass of information which was deciphered at once, with some assistance from him. Exact locations were charted and objectives laid out. All of it was done on the run.
Before the officers were through with the radioman, a message was sent out to the Nazis holding up the attack until further instructions were given. The message was in code and properly sent so that it would be received by the enemy as an order from their key man in London. Herr Naggel's secret code number was signed to it.
Then there was a cold and clearheaded gathering around the big map in the central control room. Four flights would go out. Not just four ordinary flights, but four all-out invasion formations with all the punch the Royal Air Force could put behind them.
Red Flight, with its three deadly Hawks, was assigned to go with the long-range Consolidateds over France to the base from which the biggest of the Jerry bomberswould take off. This would be the first wave sent over, because it had the longest route. It would be protected by the Hawks and by Defiants equipped for long-range flying. At last Stan got away from the O.C. and dashed to the mess.
He had secured three capable gunners to take along because he expected an opportunity to do some ground strafing. The early morning sky was cloudy with high fog and black clouds. If the weather held all the way over, they would be able to stage a real surprise.
In the mess he found Judd and McCumber and Kelley talking with Allison and O'Malley. Other men were gathered in small groups. The tension was high in the room.
"When do we get the signal?" Judd asked. His detail was to a field in Belgium.
"Any minute now," Stan said. He looked over Judd's head and saw that O'Malley was munching a slab of apple pie.
"Sure, an' we'll all get to go on a long vacation after this is over," O'Malley said. "There won't be a Jerry left in the sky."
Stan smiled but back of the smile there was a feeling of grimness. A lot of the eageryoungsters gathered in that room would not come back.
"I'll see that you get your vacation in a pie factory," he promised.
Three sergeants came in and stood waiting. Stan went to them.
"Kent, Ames, and Martin, sir, reporting as gunners," one of the men said.
"Fine. Come along and I'll give you a one minute lesson on the guns you'll use, though you likely don't need it." He turned to Allison. "Pack out my togs, will you?"
"I'll bring a helmet and a chute," Allison drawled. "The Nazis will make it so hot for you, you won't need a fur suit."
Stan grinned in response to Allison's casual manner. Both knew this would be the most important action they had yet been engaged in, that it would be one of the most terrific and devastating raids staged during the entire war, yet it was best to kid about it. That was the only way to relieve the tension all of them were under, keep them cool and collected until the shooting actually started.
The night was cloudy but there was little low fog. In a dozen scattered flight centers men were busy. Coveralled ground squads swarmed around fighter planes, medium bombers and long-range giants whose lettering B Y 3, painted there by Yank builders, had been smeared over with British lacquer. Exhausts flamed, bomb trucks trundled in and out, while pilots and gunners checked rigging and outfits. The big show was on, the biggest the Royal Air Force had ever planned.
Stan and O'Malley and Allison waited with their gunners near them. They had checked the Hendee Hawks so many times they could see every detail of the ships if they closed their eyes. O'Malley had come near being recommended for court-martial when he battled the O.C. over an order tocarry extra gasoline instead of racks of bombs.
"Didn't we blow up a pocket battleship?" he argued sourly.
"After Jerry serves us up a welcome reception we'll talk," Allison said. "I'm expecting it to be hot."
At that moment the intersquadron speaker began to rattle off clipped orders. Every man was on his feet instantly. The moment had come for them to take off. Number 30 swarmed out on the field. Allison was in command again, Stan had insisted upon that arrangement. Allison was cold and calculating, Stan Wilson was a fighter and wanted action. Anyway, Allison had earned that right to lead. He was the original flight lieutenant of Red Flight.
Stan grinned eagerly as he swung himself into the cockpit and glanced back to see that his gunner got set. He called back over his shoulder. "Tight straps, Sergeant, we likely will be in a few tight spots."
"Yes, sir," the gunner answered. He settled back against his shock pad and adjusted his belt.
Strange how a fellow can always take upanother notch in his belt, Stan thought. Then he jerked the throttle open and the Hawk roared and strained on the cab rank. He pinched one brake and swung around, heading down the field with a finger of light guiding them.
"Red Flight, check your temperatures. Red Flight, are you set?" Allison's voice was crisp and metallic.
Stan and O'Malley cleared and the Hawks swung around. The recording officer and the coveralled mechanics had slipped back into the darkness. A mobile floodlight thumped over the black field ahead, took position, and a yellow shaft of light slapped down the field. The adjustment was made on the shadow bar and the three Hawks nosed into the band of black and waited, trembling, ready.
The signal came from the recording officer's Aldis light and they were off. Screeching into the night, twisting up the glory trail with the hydrogen gorged balloons tugging at their cables, waiting like gloating monsters for their victims, out of the notch and up they went.
"Tight formation," Allison droned. And Stan in the right-hand slot shoved in closer to the roaring monster in the lead.
"Contacting Liberators," Allison drawled.
Stan looked out and saw the dull forms of the thirty ton battle cruisers of the air sliding along below. The big fellows were cutting through the night at a terrific pace considering their pay loads and their own weight. Their 4,800 horsepower hurled them on at a pace that made the Spitfires and the Defiants hustle.
Red Flight took its place high above the drifting Liberators. Below would be the Defiants and on each side the Spitfires and Hurricanes. It was a big show and would soon be on.
"St. Omer with the field at Astree Blanche as the objective," Stan muttered to himself. This was a change in plans made after a careful study of the hunchback's little book. It would not be so bad as flying deep into Nazi country.
"Heather Raid," Stan muttered and grinned. The High Command was sending a great flight of bombers and fighters to blastenemy positions and they called it Heather Raid.
"Heather Raid—Heather Raid—rendezvous—zero hour." That was the Squadron Leader. Stan watched and listened. Nothing more came in and Allison kept flying straight ahead.
They were drifting along above the clouds. There was a moon and plenty of stars. The pale light made the squadron look like a school of fishes swimming through a blue-black sea. The clouds would be fine for everyone but the Jerries. Down below the Hurricanes would be slipping in and out of the clouds, watching, taking bearings, whispering up to the giants above, telling them what they couldn't see.
"Red Flight, go down. Yellow Flight up." The Squadron Leader spoke tersely as though he had sighted enemy planes coming up.
Stan peeled off and went down, with Allison and O'Malley trailing into formation. They hit the clouds, punched through and saw lights winking below. They were solitary lights and revealed little. Perhaps theywere ship's lights on the channel. Then they went back up through the clouds and took a place below the Liberators. Stan glanced up at the big ships. The British had changed the name of those Consolidated B Y 3's to Liberator. It was a proper change, Stan thought.
Suddenly a bank of cloud on the right and above was lighted with a red glow. A second later a Messerschmitt One-Ten came flaming down, tossing away parts as it spun. A broken Defiant followed it down in a wide, agonizing spiral.
"What goes on up there?" Stan called back to his gunner.
"Upper level defense units in contact, sir," the gunner answered. He had been on thirty-six raids across the channel and knew what to expect.
"And they pulled us down to let the Defiants have the fun," Stan muttered.
"Have a look, Red Flight," Allison's voice snapped.
Down the Hawks went for a look at the ground. They saw a band of light swing across the ground, then steady.
"Landing field lights located, port a few points," Allison droned.
Almost at once the Liberators changed their tone. They began to growl and roar. Positions were taken and the Hawks slid up to be above the bombers, out of their way and into the path of diving Messerschmitts and Heinkels. But the lone fighter seemed to be the only enemy ship in the air.
As Stan watched the action he realized that bombing wasn't just releasing a stick or two of bombs. Its complications were apparent. Far below them the earth had suddenly begun to erupt fire and flame. They were clear of the clouds and their objective was below, a circle inside a ring of flaming guns all pointed at the bombers. And the Liberators were going down with feathered propellers.
Twelve thousand feet below lay their objective. The bombers were in a big hurry to catch the rows of black planes on the ground, to spot the oil reserves and to smash the surface of the runways. They slipped away in screaming dives and left Red Flight to watch from above.
Tracer bullets trailed threads of fire upwardand the muck of bursting shells was thick below. The Liberators were knifing straight into it. Red Flight went down to 8,000, there to stay on the alert. Stan saw a Liberator smack into a bursting shell that exploded against her understructure. The Liberator slid off to the side and burst into flames. Grimly Stan noted that no parachutes blossomed out below her as she shot to earth. The other bombers were through the muck of fire and down upon their targets.
"Red Flight, strafe ground planes," ordered the voice of the Squadron Leader.
That was why they had been pulled down. The Hendee Hawks with their sixteen-wing guns would deal terrible destruction to ships on the ground.
"Sure, an' 'tis about time," O'Malley roared.
Down went the three Hawks, straight at the muck of flame below. The wind whistled above the din of bursting shells. Stan took a deep breath. It was great, if you didn't meet one of those shells on its way up.
The AA shells were bursting close under their noses. It seemed certain death to dive any farther, but they kept on diving. Thesea of flames leaped up to smack them in the face. It roared around them, then vanished lighting the sky above them. Stan saw rows of planes on the ground. He saw them clearly. A hangar was blazing and a row of oil tanks was sending up a pillar of smoke and flame thousands of feet into the air.
As Stan looked toward the flaming tanks he saw a circle of them lift and vanish into the air as a big bomb landed in their midst. Pulling the nose of his ship up he reached for the gun button, and swooped upon the lines of planes. On his left Allison and O'Malley were already raking those bombers. Stan's Brownings drilled a swath of lead across the field as he swept over.
Up went the Hawks and over and back again. They saw the destruction their first dive had wrought and set about adding to it. The Liberators had circled and were down again, the roar of their dive shaking the earth and the air above it. The field where the rows of Junkers bombers had stood was heaving and rolling and exploding.
"Up, Red Flight," came a command from Allison. "There's a real show going on up there."
Up they went, nosing through the flaming muck. This time they had little trouble in breaking through. Great holes and spaces in the barrage showed where the bombers had spotted gun placements. O'Malley was on Stan's left now and Stan was flying the center slot. There had been no time to take regulation position. Stan saw O'Malley's Hawk lift and shear away from a blasting burst of steel as a shell exploded under her. An instant later he knew the Hawk had picked up a package of death. It was twisting and wobbling, but going on up.
"Go in, O'Malley! Go in O'Malley," Allison was droning. "Get back across. Get back across."
Before Stan could do anything at all, he was up through the muck, and then through the clouds, into a real battle. The sky was full of twisting, diving planes, all spitting at each other in deadly fashion. He was so busy keeping Messerschmitts off his tail that he lost track of Allison and O'Malley. He noted that there were only a few Spitfires and Defiants near him, though the air was literally filled with Jerries. It dawned on him that they might wish to force down thisnew plane so as to have a look at it. And he wasn't able to get a single swastika inside his sight circle. Suddenly he heard a familiar voice calling:
"Heather Raid, come in. Objective successfully attacked. Heather Raid, come in."
"Good idea," Stan agreed. He laid over and sliced into a mass of Messerschmitts ahead of him, opening his throttle wide and cutting in his booster. As he bored into the formation it opened to let him go through. Only one ME failed to give way. It roared straight at him as though bent upon ramming him. Stan's lips pulled into a tight line and he reached for his gun button.
"Sorry, feller," he muttered. "But you don't ram me."
He pressed the button but no burst answered. He was out of ammunition. With a yank he pulled the Hawk up, then twisted her over. The hair at the back of his neck lifted as his understructure raked across the hatch cover of the Jerry. Lead streamed below him as he flashed past.
Stan kicked off his booster and headed for home. The Messerschmitts gave chase but they slipped away from them as easily as aswallow would outdistance a plover. Behind him he heard his gunner laughing.
"What's up?" he called back.
"I touched up that Jerry who tried to ram us, sir," the sergeant answered. "Potted his rudder and you should see him do stunts."
Stan had completely forgotten he carried a gunner. The man had been silent all of the time. Now Stan knew he must have been giving an account of himself.
"How did you make out?" he asked.
"Fine, sir. I believe I made several hits."
A short while later they circled above their home field and came in. Lights blazed on the field for the first time since Stan had been flying from it. Number 30 would be lighted up for an hour at least, in spite of raiders. This was by way of celebrating their victory.
Stan climbed out of his plane. He saw Allison coming across the field. They met and Stan could think of nothing to say. O'Malley hadn't come in.
"Tough, O'Malley missing that big fight after the raid," he finally said.
Allison looked at him. A slow smile came to his lips. He pointed out across the field.Stan looked and saw a mass of twisted wreckage. What certainly was the tail assembly of a Hendee Hawk was sticking out of the twisted mass.
"He parked that mess there, then climbed out and walked into the briefing room," Allison said. "We'll find him in there grousing because they called us in before we got all of those Messerschmitts."
Stan's laugh rang out and he made for the briefing room. Sure enough, O'Malley was there and he was fuming.
"'Tis time I quit this job," he shouted at the briefing officer. "When a man can't stay an' settle an argument like a gentleman, 'tis time to quit."
The officer grinned at O'Malley. Stan slapped his pal on the back. "I'll buy you a pie, and darned if I don't eat one myself."
O'Malley considered this for a moment, then said: "If a man can't fight, then the next best thing is to consider a bit of food."
Arm in arm the three fliers of Red Flight walked into the mess.
The next morning Allison and O'Malley and Stan were eating breakfast at a sidetable. Allison had been over to headquarters and he had learned a few things. Over bacon and hot cakes he told them what he had heard.
"Garret was the man on the spot, but they got a fellow who was way up, they wouldn't give his name. He kept Garret from getting tossed out of the service and worked it so he was made a Squadron Leader. They planned to get a man like Garret into every squadron if they could."
"'Tis black, the likes of such a man is," O'Malley said with a scowl.
"Garret admitted bleeding Stan's gas tank and leading Moon Flight off the trail. I asked him how he found out Stan was a Yank and he said the information was sent him from the Nazi secret service." Allison leaned back and smiled. "I have an idea our Intelligence will do a lot more snooping from now on."
"Sure an' 'tis a nice tale, but one we already had figured out," O'Malley said.
"I got a real raking for not turning over Stan's record to Farrell as soon as we were transferred," Allison said with a grin. "I now tender my apologies but, after the firstspoofing I did, I clean forgot about those reports. They didn't seem important. Stan is one of the best pilots in the Royal Air Force, and what we need is fighters."
"It's all over now, and I accept your apology," Stan said.
O'Malley scowled suddenly. "Do you gents think we'll ever get to see any more action? I bet we won't."
He was answered by the intersquadron speaker. It began rasping:
"Red Flight, all out. Red Flight, all out. Bandits sighted over the Dover coast. Heavy fighter escort of Messerschmitt One-Tens."