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A YANKEE FLIER WITH THE R.A.F.
[Illustration: THE HAWK DROPPED UPON THE BATTLE WAGON BELOW.
_A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F._
_Frontispiece (Page 120)_]
A YANKEE FLIER WITH THE R.A.F.
BY
AL AVERY
_ILLUSTRATED BY_
PAUL LAUNE
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1941, BY
GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC.
_All Rights Reserved_
_Printed in the United States of America_
[Transcriber's note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence
that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I GLORY TRAIL 1
II CLOUD TAG 19
III BILL O'MALLEY 35
IV NEW QUARTERS 60
V O'MALLEY BAGS A JERRY GUN 76
VI THE SEA DOGS GROWL 91
VII SALT WATER SPRAY 111
VIII STAN'S PAST RISES 131
IX SPECIAL MISSION 149
X GROUND SLEUTHING 173
XI PLENTY OF TROUBLE 193
XII LUFTWAFFE IN REVERSE 200
A YANKEE FLIER WITH THE R.A.F.
CHAPTER I
GLORY TRAIL
Swing music was blaring from the radio set in the mess when Stan Wilson
entered. His blue eyes, which gleamed with a great zest for living,
gazed levelly around the room. There was a look in them which had been
born of penetrating the blue depths of Colorado canyons and, later on,
at the limitless spaces a flier sees. As usual, a half-smile, seemingly
directed at himself, played at the corners of his mouth. There was
seldom a moment so danger-filled that Stan Wilson could not laugh at
himself.
Here he was, really a fugitive from his distant homeland, standing in
the Royal Air Force mess while outside the closely curtained windows all
of London lay under an inky blackout, listening and waiting for the
whine of the bombers. Stan was to be a member of Red Flight, which had
been taking on replacements so fast that even the Flight Lieutenant
wasn't able to get chummy with his men before they left him.
Stan smiled as he looked over the group in the mess. He had met Judd, a
plump youth who was unofficially known as "jelly bean"; McCumber, a
silent Scot who seldom smiled; and Tommy Lane, who never ceased to
whistle tavern tunes. At a reading table scanning a paper sat Irish
Kelley whose dark face and hawklike features made him look like a real
lead slinger.
A man he did not know sat at a low table with a cup of black coffee
before him. He was slender and even though his uniform needed pressing
it seemed to fit him like a glove. His blond hair was closely clipped
and the cool, gray eyes he lifted to meet Stan's gaze held a hint of
insolent mockery. This was March Allison, Stan knew at once. A crazy
Flight Lieutenant who was fast making a name for himself by his savage
fighting heart and his dizzy flying ability. Stan stepped toward the
table.
Allison nodded to a vacant chair beside the table and Stan dropped into
it.
"I'm March Allison," he said and his cool eyes moved over Stan with
irritating boldness. The superior air of the Britisher provoked Stan,
but he refused to show it because he did not intend to lose his temper.
"I'm Stan Wilson," he said, "the new member of Red Flight."
"Stan Wilson, Canadian test pilot?" Allison clipped the words off in a
manner that was almost derisive.
"That's what my card shows," Stan said testily.
"You're a Yank," Allison snapped. Then he grinned and little wrinkles
crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I can smell a Yank," he added.
"If you don't mind suppose we leave it as the card reads?" Stan said
coldly.
"All right with me, old fellow," Allison answered. "Only I hope you're a
faster flier than the planes the Yanks have sent us so far."
That nettled Stan. A picture leaped into his mind--the picture of a trim
fighter plane with low wings, and two banks of Brownings on each side
of a 2,000-horse-power radial motor. Stan had nursed several of those
babies into the blue. He didn't have to close his eyes to remember the
test flight card he had filled out.
"Climbed to 20,000 feet in six minutes. Performed two barrel rolls,
three loops. Checked all controls in neutral. Fired all guns and checked
temperatures of gun-warming units. Did a series of sharp dives with
steady pull-outs." As Stan's thoughts wandered back he grinned into
Allison's face. He had put a number of Spitfires through their paces and
knew that they were mud hens compared to the new babies which would soon
be coming over from the United States.
"You'll soon get one with 2,000 horses up ahead and then you'll junk
your Spitfires and Hurricanes," he said.
Allison cocked an eye at him and grinned widely. "Do you suppose you and
I will be hitting the glory trail then?"
"I figure I'll be around doing something," Stan answered and matched the
Lieutenant's grin.
A mess corporal was standing near by hopefully fussing with Stan's chit
book which had just been issued to him. Stan gave the corporal a nod.
"Black coffee," he ordered.
At that moment Tommy Lane strolled over and flopped into a chair. He
winked at Stan as he elevated his lank legs to the top of the table,
almost upsetting Allison's coffee.
"If the notch don't get you the Messerschmitts must," he hummed softly.
He seemed to be trying to tease Allison. When the Flight Lieutenant
failed to show any interest, Tommy said, "Your treat, Allison. I'll have
black coffee with a big jug of cream on the side."
Allison ordered Tommy's drink and watched the corporal mark it up in his
chit book. He rolled an eye lazily toward the lanky youth.
"Stan Wilson from Canada," he drawled.
Stan grinned at Tommy Lane. His eyes bit into Allison. He did not like
the way Allison was acting about his past record. If he was to have his
chance to get a whack at the Jerries in this war, it was important that
he be considered a subject of the British Empire, and he had come a lot
of miles to get that chance.
All his plans would be ruined if the truth about him came out. Posing as
a Canadian he had a good chance to get by, but there would be
embarrassing questions about his past if his true nationality was found
out. Questions that Stan Wilson couldn't answer without having his new
officer's commission stripped from him. He waited breathlessly to see if
Tommy would notice the challenge in Allison's voice, but the tall youth
merely grinned cheerfully and said:
"We get darn good men from Canada."
Suddenly the intersquadron speaker rasped and began snapping orders.
Every man in the room stopped talking and listened. A sudden tenseness
filled the air of the room.
"Red Flight, all out! Red Flight, all out!"
"Well, well. Out for a breath of night air," Allison drawled. No one
else said anything and the men of Red Flight barged toward the door.
"Green Flight, stand by," rasped the speaker.
Stan moved out behind Tommy Lane with Allison striding ahead. In less
than three minutes they were bundled in flying suits, with parachutes
batting their legs. Like waddling Arctic explorers they shoved out into
the damp blackness of the night.
On the cab rank three Spitfires were shuddering under slow throttle.
Flight sergeants were clambering down after warming up the motors. The
ragged flare of exhausts whirled grotesque shadows across the ground,
and oil fumes mixed with raw gasoline sucked up into their faces.
Sidders, Recording Officer, waved a sheaf of papers at Allison as he
halted before the Flight Lieutenant. Sidders looked like a big bear with
his greatcoat muffled around him. "Take the notch at 2,500. Landing
signal, K. Good luck."
Allison grinned as he saluted. "Landing signal, K," he repeated
mechanically.
A moment later Allison was jerking his hatch cover back and pinching one
wheel brake. He rammed the throttle knob up and swung the Spitfire
around. It lurched away and his voice came through the earphones of
Tommy Lane and Stan Wilson.
"Slide up, Lane, Wilson." His voice was cold and impatient.
The three Spitfires shoved their noses into the black wall of the night,
their exhausts snarling flame. They hesitated, waiting for the take-off
signal.
"Check your temperatures," Allison droned into his flap mike.
Stan Wilson settled himself against his crash pad and got his chute
squared under him. He had taken up his belt a notch beyond what he
thought was possible. Tension gripped him. This was combat with a
flaming trail ahead. He wasn't test diving and stunting now, he was
hunting and would be hunted. And up there the night was as black as the
inside of a cellar.
They got the clearance signal and the tails of the Spitfires lifted with
a blast of prop pressure. They slid down the runway, gathering terrific
speed. A few seconds later they were screaming over the blacked-out
city.
"Close, close, tight in," Allison's voice droned.
Stan saw below the gray rectangle that was Hyde Park Square. He watched
the knifing flame that the searchlights stabbed into the black heavens
as they probed and searched for the black bellies of the bombers. The
dull rapping of anti-aircraft shells beating against the heavy dome
above smashed back the roar of his motor. The ground boys would soon
spread a muck of fire and bursting steel over London.
"Tight, tight, we're coming into the notch," Allison's voice warned.
Red Flight swept north now in a steep, battering turn. The notch was
dead ahead.
"Shove in, Tommy. Don't try slicing a cable," Allison snarled. "Come in!
Come in! Here we go!"
The Spitfires slid closer together, bunched like darting swallows, their
flaming breath licking into the night. In a few seconds they would be
out where they could spread and go into action. For the first time,
since rubbing elbows with a Spitfire, Stan wondered how you bailed out
of the roaring monster if it broke up going 350 miles per hour. He slid
his thumb across the black gun button as he set his windbreaker's edge
on a line with Allison's aileron slit.
Blood pounded in his ears and a chill eagerness laid hold upon him. He
leaned forward and would have shouted. Allison and Tommy and the whole
British Broadcasting System would likely get the benefit of it if he cut
loose with a cowboy yell. He closed his mouth firmly and fixed his eyes
on the aileron slit ahead. The 1,000-horsepower Merlin engine was
throbbing, hurtling him up and into the night. He could feel the
assuring Brownings in the wings, ready to spew a hail of lead at the
enemy. He did not realize it but beads of sweat stood on his forehead.
He was glad he was coming out of the narrow channel of terror which was
charted anew each week. The notch was guarded by unseen, steel cables,
slender knives of spun death, waiting to slice through the wing of a
plane like a knife cutting through hot cheese. Or to come coiling down
upon any ship that struck them squarely. The hydrogen bloated monsters
that held the cables aloft swayed and tugged, sometimes swinging the
steel lines far out into the notch.
Out of this avenue the three Spitfires bored. When they were clear
Allison's drawl came in clearly:
"Pick yourself a bandit."
Two blades of silver light knifed upward. They swept back and forth,
then stopped, remaining straight up. This was a signal Allison
understood perfectly.
"Four bandits, quarter left," he snapped.
Before Stan could lay over, Allison's Spitfire was hurtling across his
hatch cover, zooming up at the droning bombers. A second later he
sighted a big Dornier just as she lurched upward in a frantic effort to
avoid Allison's Brownings.
A half-smile came to the lips of Stan Wilson. Everything they had said
about March Allison was correct. He was a demon in the air. Stan shot
his Spitfire up at the belly of the floundering Dornier. He had no time
to play spectator. Pressing the gun button he felt the kick of his eight
Brownings as they drilled away. Pinkish flames spurted from the
mid-section of the bomber as it whirled about, sliding off on one wing
with flames, red now, belching out of it. It turned over and four men
tumbled out. Stan watched long enough to see their chutes blossom
against the red glow of gunfire from below. He was glad that the crew
had been able to bail out.
On his right Stan saw tracer bullets from Allison's guns. He made out a
dark hulk twisting and turning, then the hulk was lighted as the Nazi
craft went down in flames. He couldn't spot Tommy as he zoomed upward
and in a split second he lost Allison. Circling, he throttled down and
let the Spitfire cruise. A chill feeling gripped the pit of his stomach.
This was new stuff for him. He was out in the darkness roaring in a
steep circle, looking for another bomber, but mostly waiting to hear
Allison's voice. He knew the unseen cables were swaying and reaching,
eager to knife him or to snarl his plane. Losing a wing wouldn't be as
bad as having the cable come down on you. If you tangle in a cable you
can't bail out. Stan peered down at the muck of shellfire below. He knew
he wouldn't be able to hit the notch without help from at least one of
the veterans.
Then he saw a searchlight beam pick up a dark shape below. It was a
bomber going down to unload. Stan nosed over and sent the Spitfire down
in a screaming dive. The flaming field of muck leaped up to meet him and
shells burst close. As Stan closed in on the dive bomber it suddenly
seemed to explode in his face.
Instantly Stan knew the cables had gotten the bandit. Frantically, he
pulled the Spitfire up and sent her roaring toward the ceiling. He
sucked in his breath as he brushed past one of the bloated gas bags.
That was a score for the Ack-Ack gunners and the ground boys. Then he
heard Allison's voice, cool and cheerful.
"Come in close, Red Flight. Somebody got two bandits. Who got two
bandits?"
Stan slid over and down, sure now of his position. Ahead, he spotted
Tommy and then Allison. They rocketed down through the notch, as sure of
the narrow pathway as though the noonday sun was shining on the cables.
Stan ducked in on Tommy's tail and went home with them.
"Why ask silly questions," Tommy was shouting to Allison. "Allison got
one, Wilson got one, the Ack-Ack boys got one. Tommy got nothing except
Allison's Spitfire in his lap."
Allison's voice came back in a sarcastic drawl. "I just shut my eyes and
cut loose. When I opened them, there was a bandit minus one wing. How
about you, Wilson?"
Stan cuddled his flap mike and laughed. He was sure of himself now. He
had hit the glory trail and could laugh at its terrors. "I just did
potshooting. Later I'll clip off tails and wings for you."
"Later?" There was that mocking note in Allison's voice.
The recall signal was calling them in. They swung over the blacked-out
city and headed for home. Ten minutes later they did a parachute walk
into the briefing room. Brooks, Squadron Leader, eyed them wearily. He
acted as though he hadn't had any sleep for a good many nights, which
was about correct. The three pilots moved over to his high desk and
reached for report forms.
"Everybody all right?" the Squadron Leader asked as he began filling out
their time record.
"Fit as flying fish," Tommy answered, grinning broadly. "Me, I like
balloons." He winked at Stan.
"Shut up," Allison snapped.
"What did you spend on yours?" Brooks asked, looking at Allison.
"Six or eight seconds in one burst," Allison answered.
"Hundred rounds," the officer jotted down. Then he looked at Tommy.
Tommy nodded toward Stan.
"Eight or ten, I guess. I used a pretty long burst," Stan admitted.
"One hundred thirty rounds, eight seconds," the officer jotted down.
A few minutes later Stan strolled into the mess with Allison. He felt
tired and would have gone to his cubicle only he wanted to see what the
boys did when they came in.
"Black coffee, that's the thing for balloon nerves," Allison said and
looked sharply at Stan. "It's on me." He waved a hand to the mess
corporal and called. "Two, black." Facing Stan, with a glint of humor in
his eyes, he said. "Not bad, old man, but you're a Yank and you learned
to fly in a fighter. And I think you'd best break down and tell me about
it."
"Sorry, but I can't think of a story you'd believe," Stan said and
grinned to hide his uneasiness. Allison was sharp as a tack. He had it
in his head that Stan was a Yank, which would have been all right except
that no Yank needed to masquerade as a Canadian to get into the Royal
Air Force. Not a flier like Stan Wilson.
They sank into chairs and waited for the coffee. Tommy hadn't showed up
and they had the mess to themselves. Allison leaned forward.
"I think the old man has something special up his sleeve," he said.
"When he acts tough and gets hard he's about to cook up a messy job.
Want in on it if it comes?" He was grinning at Stan in his most derisive
manner. He might just as well have added, "Of course you won't want in."
"Check me in," Stan said stiffly.
"Fine." Allison leaned back and elevated his legs to the top of the
table. "Fine. I figure the old man is going to give us a one-way
ticket."
"A what?" Stan asked. The way Allison spoke made a chill run up his
spine.
Allison turned his head and looked at Stan. "In the last war when
fighters were sent out as scouts they had to come back to report. In
this man's war they radio back their reports. After that they play tag
with a swarm of Messerschmitt One-Tens."
"I see." Stan could well imagine what sort of tag three Spitfires would
play with a dozen or more ME's. It was just plain suicide stuff. "Ever
been on one?" he asked.
Allison grinned widely. "Once. A cloud, plus eight Brownings and a lot
of fool's luck, brought me back with most of my ship. It beats hitting
the glory trail every night."
"Sounds interesting," Stan agreed as he pulled his steaming cup of
coffee to him and began dropping sugar lumps into it. "I aim to get a
kick out of it."
Allison laughed. "Hanged if I don't believe you will. You'll go if I do
any of the picking."
"And about this Yank business." Stan looked Allison squarely in the eye.
"It isn't international. It isn't a violation of any of the laws of
Britain or any country. It's a personal matter. If you keep on talking
about it you'll lose a flier, that's certain."
"I see," Allison said, but he kept on grinning his superior grin. "I
knew it wasn't anything rotten. Sorry I was nosey. It won't come up
before anyone, Yank." He lifted his cup. "Here's to the glory trail!"
Stan joined him. Tommy came in and sprawled out on a bench with his
feet against the wall. He looked over at Allison and Stan.
"The O.C. says Green Flight is taking over for the rest of the night, so
you birds can go to bed."
"Where are you going?" Allison asked.
Tommy uncoiled himself and stood up. He began humming a snatch of song,
stopped abruptly and answered Allison.
"Too quiet around here for me." Without any further explanation he
strolled out.
"That nut can't get action enough running the notch. He's on his way
over to a bombing squadron. He'll talk the O.C. into letting him go on a
bombing raid as a gunner." Allison got to his feet. "Me, I'm going to
bed."
"Reckon I will, too," Stan answered.